


The Admirer

by howterrifying



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-09-28 06:44:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 37
Words: 164,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10077932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howterrifying/pseuds/howterrifying
Summary: Admiration is always charming. When a strange, dangerous admirer goes beyond charm, Sherlock's private world is interrupted. And so is Molly's.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'd written fanfic since I was a teen, dabbling in various fandoms but this Sherlolly multi-chapter fic is the first multi-chapter work I've _ever_ completed. It's not perfect, it's got weird bits, it's a bit of a drama fest, a bit of a soap opera but _by golly_ it's finished. 
> 
> I first premiered this on FF.net and on my tumblr but thanks to the suggestion of a lovely reviewer on FF.net, I'm finally uploading it here. I began writing this almost four years ago and in that span of time, my writing style certainly evolved, as did my characters. Molly's, in particular, was a character I really enjoyed growing and seeing her in a different light as I began to view the series and their relationship in a different light. 
> 
> As I upload the chapters, I will be doing renewed proof-reads now that it's complete. So if you see slight differences in this version as compared to the version FF.net, do not be surprised. I hope you'll enjoy this very 'slow burn' journey of our favourite pathologist and the detective. 
> 
> Oh, and in case you don't know, I am a _die-hard_ Mycroft fangirl. I am especially partial to Mollcroft the brOTP as well as, oh well, you'll see :)
> 
> Thank you for coming to give this story a go! To all those who'd supported this story from the very beginning and followed me to the end, I will never be able to thank you enough. It would never have been finished without all of you. xx

Sherlock looked at his reflection in the mirror and inhaled slowly. There was nothing he loathed more than having to do these ‘public duties’, as Mycroft called them. It was made worse when formal dress was involved.  
   
“Useless, fiddly thing, this…” muttered Sherlock as he awkwardly adjusted his bowtie.  
“Let me help,” Mrs Hudson said cheerfully, straightening the bowtie nicely for Sherlock.  
“Looking sharp, Sherlock,” said John, amused at Sherlock’s clear discomfort.  
“I _am_ sharp,” snapped Sherlock, “unlike the rest of you.”  
“You’re welcome,” John replied, just short of rolling his eyes at Sherlock’s little tantrum.  
  
In the taxi, Sherlock, as usual, sat with his back ramrod straight. His jaw was clenched tightly. His clear eyes stared right at the road ahead. John cleared his throat and glanced over at this friend of his.  
  
“Don’t. Speak. Please. John.” The words came out almost robotically.  
  
John was interrupted before he could even begin speaking. Of course Sherlock knew he would be about to speak. John laughed, resigned.  
  
“Fine. But I _will_ say one thing…”  
  
Sherlock turned condescendingly towards John, impatience etched in his eyebrows.  
  
“Behave.” John said, glaring hard at Sherlock’s stoic face. “You owe it to Mycroft to be there and to _behave_ tonight.”  
“I don’t owe Mycroft anything.” Sherlock muttered between clenched teeth. He turned his head away from John to stare out of the window.  
“Yes, you do.” John said, matter-of-factly. “He is the reason you can be back here, living in Baker Street, with everything back to normal as though nothing’s happened.*”  
  
Sherlock stayed silent. He refused to acknowledge anything John had said. But he had no grounds to refute it either.  
  
“Just…behave. All right?” said John with a sigh.  
  
The taxi ride was over before they knew it and the two gentlemen stepped out of the taxi onto the large steps of the impressive British Museum. Sherlock and John were ushered into the main atrium that had been beautifully decorated for the gala they were about to attend.  
  
“Ah, brother.” Mycroft said, with a broad smile. He extended his hand towards Sherlock who merely stared in return. John cleared his throat and nudged Sherlock in the elbow. With great restraint, Sherlock obediently took his brother’s hand.  
  
“You know I don’t enjoy these things, _brother_ ,” Sherlock whispered fiercely to Mycroft.  
“I know,” Mycroft replied, “But this occasion calls for your presence for…how shall I put it? For the sake of good public relations.”  
“I would rather you kept me _out_ of your public relations. As it stands, our own relations are more than I can endure.” Sherlock said coldly.  
  
Mycroft laughed and shook his head.  
  
“My dear brother, I will never understand you. But tonight,” said Mycroft, his voice lowered with no trace of a smile anymore, “You are an important man. And this…importance you carry is important to _my_ work. So if you would be so kind as to do this _one_ thing for me, considering everything else that has exchanged between us…”  
  
John stood around awkwardly as the brothers faced each other in their quiet little battle. Both pierced the other with cold, hard stares, neither wishing to back down.  
  
Sherlock _did_ owe it to Mycroft. It was the single most difficult thing to accept.  
  
“All right, Mycroft.” Sherlock said, “Tonight, I am your puppet.” Sarcasm dripped with every word.  
“I trust you will be on your best behaviour then.” Mycroft replied, his politically correct smile returning to his face. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have people to greet.”  
  
Sherlock watched his brother stride gallantly off to meet with some politicians who had just arrived. Slowly but surely, the gala crowd increased in number. There were men in suits, accompanied by their wives decked in glittery gowns with hair coiffed so high they could knock the chandeliers off the ceiling.  
  
The occasion was to celebrate the launch of a collection of rare documents and paraphernalia that chronicled the history of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. A particularly powerful family in Britain had, through all the right channels and connections, managed to secure a year-long exhibition with the British Museum, showcasing the rich history of the famous hospital.  
  
Mycroft’s presence at the gala was but a natural affair. After all, it was his job to remain on good terms with all sorts of powerful families and people. A minor role for the sake of Britain’s administration, as Mycroft would put it.  
  
This was to be a huge event and many guests from all related circles were going to be present. Among the guests that arrived, John recognised a few old faces from when he was studying medicine. Sherlock merely stood beside John, silent, unmoving and counting down to when the gala would be over.  
  
“You two look nice.”  A familiar and cheerful voice chimed.  
“Molly!” exclaimed John, giving her a hug and kissing her on the cheek. “Fancy meeting you here.”  
“Well, “ Molly said, with a bright smile, “I do work for the hospital, you know.”  
“Of course, you do. How silly of me.” John said, laughing. “You look lovely!”  
  
“Thanks…” Molly replied, smiling shyly. Molly did look lovely, with her beautiful hair curled in gentle waves and left to cascade on one side. Her dress was simple, black with white accents that followed her own silhouette nicely. Everything was kept to a minimal, but it was pretty and quintessentially, _Molly_.  
  
“Hello, Sherlock.” Molly said, glancing at him carefully.  
“Molly,” he replied, not even bothering to look at her.  
“Champagne?” asked a waiter, suddenly. John and Molly eagerly took a glass each. The waiter hovered awkwardly in front of Sherlock, unsure of what to do, eventually slipping away to serve other guests.  
  
The evening went on without a hitch. Delicate little canapés were served along with endless flutes of champagne on silver trays that floated between guests. Many speeches were made, generous applause was given and a single, silver ribbon was cut. The guests were mingling again and more drinks circulated among the crowd. Molly stood with a group of colleagues and was chatting rather comfortably with them. John had left Sherlock on a few occasions to say hello to a few of those familiar faces but Sherlock stayed in his corner. He barely spoke and merely smirked at the few unfortunate souls who had braved a ‘hello’. Sherlock glanced at his watch. It was only 9pm. He exhaled slowly, jaw clenched. This was more than he could bear.  
  
“Just a little while more, you’re doing fine.” John said, returning to check on Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock resisted rolling his eyes and just kept on breathing steadily.  
  
“Why _did_ Mycroft want you here tonight, specifically?” asked John, reaching for a tiny chocolate tart offered to him from a tray of pastries. They were serving dessert now.  
  
“Public relations. Don’t you remember?” answered Sherlock.  
“I _do_ remember.” John answered, “Which is exactly why I’m asking. Why on _earth_ would Mycroft want _you_ here tonight?”  
  
Sherlock let out a bitter scoff and turned to face John.  
  
“Well, you’ll find out right…about…”  
“There he is, Sherlock Holmes!” came Mycroft’s jovial voice.  
“…now.” Sherlock said, turning from John to face his brother.  
  
Mycroft appeared before his stone-faced brother. Accompanying Mycroft was an astoundingly beautiful young woman. Her hair was the colour of dark chocolate and swept back in a low chignon. She was tall, and was taller still because of her high heels. Her slim frame was wrapped in navy blue Shantung silk, perfectly tailored. From her ears dangled two delicate teardrops of emerald.  
  
“Mr Holmes.” she said, a slow smile appearing on her face, “This is a pleasure.”  
  
John was just about to subtly but firmly remind Sherlock of his manners when Sherlock extended his hand to the young woman.  
  
“Ms Lancaster. Good evening.” Sherlock greeted. He even managed a small smile. “The pleasure is mine.”  
  
John watched, amazed, as Sherlock took her hand and shook it politely. There was no trace of a smirk, no overt disdain, no condescension registering anywhere on Sherlock’s face. John could feel his mind being blown just ever so slightly at this change of character. It seemed Mycroft felt the same way. Armed with all sorts of defences at the tip of his tongue to salvage what rudeness might slip from his brother’s own, Mycroft was stunned to silence.   
  
“I doubt I would need to introduce myself,” she said, her eyes sparkling, outshining the emeralds on her ears. “Certainly not to someone so great as yourself, Mr Holmes.”  
“Ms Lancaster, you are very kind.” Sherlock continued, his smile firmly in place.  
“Ms Lancaster is a fervent admirer of your work, Sherlock,” Mycroft spoke, at last.  
  
Sherlock did a little bow, and his charming smile that so rarely appeared still lingered. The beautiful Ms Lancaster laughed and took a step toward Sherlock.  
  
“Very fervent, Mr Holmes,” she said as she reached for his bow-tie, gently straightening it. At her touch, however, Sherlock flinched, ever so slightly.  
  
“Please, call me Sherlock.” There was a discomfort in his voice, a slight strain.  
  
“And you may call me Evelyn,” she replied, taking a step back. “Mycroft, how can I ever thank you enough?” She never once took her eyes off Sherlock.  
  
“I am glad to have made your evening,” was Mycroft’s reply. He looked hard at Sherlock, as though to assess if this was all going to be all right. Sherlock glanced back at his brother and in that glance Mycroft could see that his brother was livid. Mycroft also knew, however, that his brother _was_ going to behave. Sherlock, in spite of everything, was going to honour the debt owed his brother.  
  
“Well now…” said Mycroft, clearing his throat, “I shall leave you two to chat. I am glad you’ve finally been acquainted.”  
“No one more glad than myself,” remarked Evelyn. Her eyes feverishly studied Sherlock’s face. “I shall let father know what a wonderful evening this has been for me, Mycroft.”  
“Hmm, well, it was the least I could do,” replied Mycroft.  
  
He looked once more at Sherlock, but this time, Sherlock was returning Evelyn’s gaze.  
  
“Sherlock…” said Mycroft.  
“Hmm?” replied Sherlock, not looking up.  
“You _will_ ensure that Ms Lancaster has an enjoyable evening?”  
“You can count on me, brother.” Sherlock said, finally looking at Mycroft.  
  
The two brothers exchanged glances and in those two seconds, Mycroft knew Sherlock was at the brink of blinding rage.  
  
“I do after all, owe it to you,” said Sherlock, with a smirk. Mycroft laughed nervously, before turning to walk away.  
“I’ll just…go catch up with Mycroft…” said John, as he scurried along after Mycroft. He had not a clue what was happening, but he did not feel comfortable hovering around Sherlock and Evelyn.  
  
“Now, Sherlock,” said Evelyn, stepping toward him again, “I have so many things I want to ask you.”  
“Ms Lancaster…”  
“Evelyn, I _said_ to call me Evelyn.”  
  
Sherlock took a deep, steady breath to keep from storming out of the place in a fiery rage. This was not the place he wanted to be at and this was certainly not something he wanted to do. Attending to the fancies of a young admirer was the last thing Sherlock would ever consider. Yet, for the sake of _public relations_ and that stupid debt owed to Mycroft, here he was. His anger was suddenly interrupted by the sounds of a string quartet that had started to play.  
  
“Oh, music…” Sherlock remarked. He turned to observe the atrium and noticed the quartet had appeared for a performance of sorts.  
  
“Ah, yes” said Evelyn, turning to see as well, “…music for one final spot of entertainment.”  
“Entertainment?” asked Sherlock.  
“Evelyn!” said a bright voice cutting through, “There you are, my dear!”  
“Andrew!” she greeted the young man to whom the bright voice belonged. “You look dashing.”  
  
Andrew grabbed her in an energetic embrace but not without Sherlock catching Evelyn rolling her eyes as she hugged the man.  
  
“You _must_ have this dance with me! You must! Come on!” said Andrew as he began dragging Evelyn away to the centre of the atrium.  
“But Andrew…wait…I…” Evelyn tried to stop Andrew from dragging her away. 

 

She looked up at Sherlock, wide-eyed and upset at having their conversation being interrupted.  
  
“Oh, I’ll just…wait here…don’t worry.” Sherlock said, relieved. He smiled his best smile and gently waved her to go ahead and dance. Evelyn resigned herself to dancing with Andrew and let herself be pulled along.  
  
The music began and soon couples started forming as they slowly waltzed around the atrium. Sherlock took this chance to collect himself. His job tonight was to entertain Evelyn, to keep her amused and occupied and to give her the attention she so craved from him. He laughed at the thought. _Attention. What a useless thing to ask for,_ thought Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock knew that he only had a few minutes to come up with something before Evelyn would find a way to weasel out of Andrew’s arms and ask him to dance instead. Slipping away now would be rude and would increase his debt to Mycroft. _Think, Sherlock, think,_ he shouted in his head.  
  
Just then, he heard the sound of a glass dropping and breaking. It was not loud enough to disrupt the dance. In fact, it seemed only Sherlock had heard it.  
  
“Oh, god, I’m so sorry…” came a small voice.  
  
Sherlock turned his head in the direction of the voice and realised immediately it was also the source of the dropped glass. There stood Molly, frantically apologising to a waiter for dropping her champagne glass. She had not had much to drink, but Molly, on occasion, _was_ clumsy. Her awkwardness amused him and he smirked a little as he watched her try to help the waiter, only to be gently refused.  
  
“You might cut yourself, miss, it’s all right,” said the kind waiter to Molly.  
“I am…so, so sorry!” said Molly, a little quiver in her voice, “Don’t cut yourself either, all right?”  
“Let the man do his job, Molly,” said Sherlock, walking over to her.  
“Oh…Sherlock…um, hello,” she said, composing herself.  
“Molly.” said Sherlock.  
“I’m so silly, aren’t I?” she said with an anxious laugh.  
“Molly…” repeated Sherlock.  
“You’d think…as a pathologist, holding sharp instruments all day…that I’d be just a little more careful…”  
“ _Molly_ …”  
“Yes?” she answered, startled.  
“Would you like to dance?” he asked her, smiling gently.  
“Would I like to...You’re asking me…to dance?” Molly asked, frowning slightly.  
“Yes,” Sherlock replied, his eyes twinkling a little. “Would you dance with me?”  
  
With delightful string music playing in the background, Molly took Sherlock’s outstretched hand and walked towards the centre of the atrium. He wrapped one hand around her waist and held her hand in the other. Slowly and steadily, they danced.  
  
And slowly and steadily, Evelyn’s anger rose as she watched Sherlock glide across the room with Molly.  
  
“Excuse me, Andrew…” said Evelyn, slipping out of Andrew’s grasp and removing her hand from his. Her eyes never once left Sherlock who held Molly close and comfortably as he danced with her. Evelyn stealthily wove between the dancing couples as she made her way towards Sherlock and Molly.  
  
“That was _my_ dance,” she muttered between clenched teeth, “ _My_ dance.”

* * *

  
  
_* This reference is based on the “The Adventures of the Empty House”, where it is revealed that only Mycroft knew of Sherlock’s survival and helped keep everything in order and under wraps as Sherlock travelled around, in disguise._


	2. Chapter 2

Molly did her best to keep up with Sherlock as they danced among the myriad of couples.  
  
“You must relax, Molly,” said Sherlock, “It would also be good to breathe once in a while.”  
“Right, sorry. I’m just…not very good at these things…” she said with a nervous laugh.  
“That’s all right,” Sherlock replied, gallantly twirling her around, “I am.”  
  
“You’re probably good at everything…” Molly said, immediately wishing she had not. Her cheeks turned a soft pink, and Sherlock smiled. Her rosy cheeks were a frequent sight and they never failed to amuse him.

  
“You need to stop stating the obvious, Molly,” Sherlock advised, “It could be your undoing.”  
“Well, no…I…just, well, I…” Molly struggled to respond.   
“Just keep dancing, Molly.”  
“Right. Sorry.”  
   
From the corner of his eye, Sherlock noticed a solitary figure among the huddled pairs. Evelyn was slowly making her way towards him. Clearly, his plan had not succeeded. It seemed him finding someone to dance with was no deterrent at all for his keen admirer to come looking for him. Unknowingly, Sherlock tensed up. His fingers around Molly’s waist tightened. It did not go unnoticed by Molly.  
  
“Sherlock…are you okay?” she asked.Molly looked up at Sherlock but he seemed to be staring ahead at something, or someone. There was no way Molly could turn to see what he was looking at, so she kept moving with him as he did, keeping her eyes on his face. His furrowed brows concerned her, but she knew better than to disrupt him. He was thinking, and thinking very hard, it seemed.  
  
The distance between Evelyn and Sherlock shortened with every high-heeled step she took. Her vision seemed to have emptied the atrium of people, leaving only Sherlock and his curious dancing partner.  
  
Thoughts and ideas raced through Sherlock’s mind but none settled and much to his displeasure, he was feeling something akin to panic. Thankfully with many experiences, mostly life-threatening, he managed to keep his heart rate normal. His skin stayed cool and dry with not a single bead of sweat. Yet, his fingers quietly betrayed him. Again, Molly felt the pressure of his hand around her waist and her hand gripped tight by the other.  
  
“Sherlock,” she whispered, looking intently at him, “Are you all—”  
“I can see you’re a marvellous dancer, Sherlock.” said Evelyn, her face beaming with her prettiest smile. She walked towards Sherlock who still held Molly to him. “Would you do me the honour?” She extended a graceful hand towards him. Her wrists were slim, delicate.  
  
“Molly,” Sherlock said, smiling handsomely at Evelyn as he let go of Molly, allowing her to turn around. “Allow me to introduce you to…”  
“Ms Evelyn Lancaster…” said Molly, with a gasp. “How do you do, Ms Lancaster?”  
  
Evelyn shifted her gaze to Molly. The dazzling smile departed and her eyes turned cold as she scanned the pathologist’s nervous face.  
  
“And who are you?” she asked Molly stiffly.  
“Of course!” Sherlock interrupted, laughing boyishly. “She’s your boss, Molly. Well, in some sense.”  
“Yes…” Molly answered quietly. “She’s on the hospital’s board of directors.” There was no doubt that the very presence of Evelyn Lancaster intimidated Molly.  
“You haven’t answered my question.” Evelyn asked Molly sharply. For the first time, her gaze had fully left Sherlock’s face, as she stared hard at this girl who shrank before her.  
  
“Who. Are. You?” repeated Evelyn. There was an edge to her voice and it did not escape Sherlock. This was something he had not read from her previously.   
“Molly…Molly Hooper. Pathology…I mean, I’m one of the pathologists. I-I’m mostly at the morgue.” Molly answered obediently.  
“Molly is a colleague,” said Sherlock, disrupting Evelyn. She turned back to face him and one corner of her lips lifted into a smirk.  
“A colleague?”  
“Yes,” replied Sherlock, making sure to look right into Evelyn’s eyes. “And an admirer of my work too, won’t you say, Molly?”  
“Oh…” Molly laughed awkwardly, “No, I just…”  
“I do not like to think that this admiration was…shared, Sherlock.” Evelyn said, slowly. She took a step closer to Sherlock, gently brushing something off his jacket.  
“No. It would seem not.” Sherlock replied warily. He tilted his chin just slightly away from her hand which now reached up to delicately touch his collar.  
  
“I don’t know if you remember, Sherlock,” she said, finally stepping away from him, “But Mycroft did say I was a fervent admirer.”  
“I remember everything.” Sherlock remarked. His reply made her chuckle and her beautiful smile radiated across her porcelain face.

“Then I believe my fervent admiration should be rewarded.” Evelyn stared piercingly into Sherlock’s eyes and he read every word that she had not said.  
  
“Ms Lancaster…”  
“Evelyn, I said!” she snapped, unintentionally.   
“Ms Lancaster,” Sherlock persisted, his voice lowered but hardening in tone, “You must know that while I acknowledge the _feverish_ madness of your admiration for my work, your admiration is vacant and of no value to me _or_ to my work. And clearly, you know little else of me other than what you _wish_ to be acquainted with and I daresay, Ms Lancaster, with all due respect, that _acquainted_ is hardly the verb you were thinking of.”    
  
As the crowd danced continuously around, Sherlock and Evelyn stood before each other, their eyes firmly on each other. Evelyn could feel her blood rush furiously through her veins to the top of her head and the peaks of her cheekbones. Sherlock no longer wore the charming smile he had on earlier. His clear eyes had gone grey, steely, as he stared mercilessly at a woman he wanted nothing to do with. Her need for his attention sickened him, and the thought of all the time he had wasted this evening infuriated him.  
  
The tension in the air thickened as Evelyn stood before Sherlock, fury rising in her face. Molly was at a bit of loss and wondered whether to speak, to stay or quietly move away.  
  
“Ladies and gentlemen…” came the voice of the cellist. The dancing bodies slowed down to a halt as the cellist addressed the crowd. “This will be our last piece for the evening. We hope you’ve all had a splendid time.”  
  
Gentle applause could be heard as more couples joined those who were poised for the night’s final dance. By this time, Molly had had enough and silently slunk away into the crowd. So many emotions ran through Molly as she carefully navigated her way among the dancing figures. She had been unnerved, first, by Sherlock’s dance with her. Despite that, she had enjoyed the proximity to him, a proximity she had only encountered one other time when he had pinned her against the corridor to the morgue, asking if she could get him two pairs of the freshest human kidneys she could find, for an experiment. Shaking her head at the memory and that of the dance, she now frowned in concern over the encounter with Evelyn.  
  
“Molly, are you all right?” came a familiar voice.  
“Oh, hello John,” said Molly, managing a smile.  
“Is everything…okay?” John asked, looking carefully at her. She nodded, smiling well.  
“Has Sherlock been bullying you again? I recognise that look.” John remarked.  
“It’s nothing. Really, it’s…all good.” Molly replied.  
“A drink, maybe?” asked John, unconvinced.  
“Oh god, yes.” sighed Molly. John waved a nearby waiter over who came promptly with a tray of drinks.  
“Drink up,” said John.  
“Yes, thank you.” Molly said as she sipped her wine eagerly.  
  
In the centre of the atrium, bodies began moving as the string quartet moved their bows to the last song of the night.  
  
“The last song…and nobody to dance with.” Evelyn said, smiling wryly at Sherlock.  
“It’s way past my bedtime, Ms Lancaster.” Sherlock answered coldly.   
“Mycroft tells me you never sleep…”  
“And you listen to whatever Mycroft tells you?”  
“On the contrary, Sherlock,” she said with a laugh, “He listens to whatever _I_ tell him.”  
  
Sherlock looked angrily at the menacing smile that bloomed on her face. She was, in all scientific and aesthetic sense, what the world would call beautiful. Yet, every look and every smile she gave Sherlock repulsed everything he stood for.  
  
“It helps to have a father whom Mycroft desperately needs to keep placated.” Evelyn said, her eyes dangerously lifting to meet Sherlock’s. “What would Mycroft say, I wonder, if I told him I didn’t get to dance at the gala this evening? Such a shame, don’t you think?”  
  
Sherlock let out a laugh before meeting her eyes again, not a trace of smile anywhere on his face.  
  
“If it’s a dance you want, you shall have it, Ms Lancaster.” Expressionless, Sherlock took a step toward her. Evelyn’s heart thumped just a little harder, despite her best efforts. Still, she coolly reached for Sherlock’s hand and placed it around her waist as he took her hand in perfect synchrony.  
  
The pair danced expertly across the atrium, smoothly avoiding other couples that were perhaps not as seasoned as the two.  
  
“You are most _definitely_ a wonderful dancer, Sherlock,” whispered Evelyn as she brought her face near to his. Their cheeks almost touched as she danced, pressing close to his tall frame. Sherlock kept moving, choosing to focus instead on analysing all the poor footwork he could see across the atrium.  
“Are you not talking to me now?” asked Evelyn quietly as she breathed in Sherlock’s scent.  
“I didn’t think it was conversation you were after.” said Sherlock, curtly.  
  
Laughing softly, Evelyn now rested her head against his neck as she embraced the full proximity of his body against hers.  
  
“Sherlock,” she said quietly, “This dance mustn’t end.” With that, she planted the softest kiss on his face. It took all of Sherlock’s willpower to not shove her away from him and hop into a taxi home. Again, there was a silent panic that ran through his body. He knew what she was asking of him and he was _never_ going to accede. But running away was only going to make matters worse. This would not bode well with Mycroft and to have something not bode well with Mycroft meant imminent inconvenience to Sherlock’s life.  
  
“Ms Lancaster…”  
“I said,” she murmured in his ear, “To call me Evelyn.”  
“We _will_ have to call it an evening,” said Sherlock.  
“Oh, I don’t think so.” Evelyn answered quietly.  
“Ms Lancaster…”  
“If you do so much as walk out of this place,” she whispered, “I will be sure to inform that sweet brother of yours how dreadful my evening has turned out to be.”  
  
Sherlock scoffed at her remark.  
  
“Are you trying to threaten me, using my _brother_ , of all people?”  
  
At this, Evelyn’s body stiffened.  
  
“My brother…is of no consequence to me. I do not owe it to him to have to endure _such_ a misfortune as this of having met you, Ms Lancaster.” Sherlock replied, whispering cruelly into her ear. The sensation of his words so near her sent lightning through her veins. But his words themselves, snapped her from her stupor.  
  
“I could _hurt_ your brother, Sherlock.” she said quietly as her hand reached up to touch his face. He laughed.  
“You really couldn’t.” he replied, turning his face away from her touch.   
“If you walk away, I will _raise hell_ and make a scene you couldn’t run from.” Evelyn threatened between her teeth.  
  
“Not if I make a scene first.” Sherlock whispered, as his face broke into a bright smile.  
  
His smile perplexed Evelyn, but nothing perplexed Sherlock at this moment. Unbeknownst to Evelyn, Sherlock had long spotted Molly standing beside John and had led them right to where Molly stood. John and Molly had not noticed, of course, for they were busy relaxing and chatting with their wine glasses in hand. Molly, in particular, had memories she needed to forget for a while.   
  
Then, quick as lightning, Sherlock spun Evelyn away from him and in doing so, took a step backwards to where Molly was standing, deliberately ramming into her.  
  
“Look out!” exclaimed John as Sherlock’s towering frame reversed into Molly.  
“Oh!” Molly exclaimed as well, as Sherlock’s back knocked into her.  
“Oh, I am _so_ sorry, Ms Hooper!” Sherlock apologised loud and clear. Doing so, he casually let go of Evelyn’s hand, as he reached for a stumbling Molly.  
  
John was about to reach for Molly to steady her when Sherlock shoved John surreptitiously aside, grabbing onto Molly, as though she was falling over.  
  
“I’m all right, Sherlock,” Molly said with a perplexed smile. Sherlock frowned, both impressed and annoyed that she had not fallen.  
“Right…” he said quietly to himself, his brain thinking fast. He had only a few seconds before Evelyn was going to scream, or do something insane. He needed something to _outdo_ whatever hell she promised she would raise.  
“I’m sorry, Molly,” he whispered to a bewildered Molly as he grabbed her hand that held her wine glass and crushed her fingers into it.  
  
Molly let out a gasp and then an exclamation of pain as the crushed wine glass cut her fingers. By then, most of the crowd had noticed the chaos and stopped to see what had happened.  
  
“Oh god, she’s bleeding,” muttered John as he scrambled to help Molly.  
“Yes, she is!” shouted Sherlock.  
“It’s all right, everyone, I’m a doctor, I’ll see to her…”  
“No, that’s all right, Doctor Watson, it looks like she needs an emergency room.” Sherlock exclaimed loudly.  
“Sherlock, _what on earth…_ ” John asked incredulously.  
“I’ll take over from here, Doctor,” declared Sherlock as he held Molly’s bleeding hand high in the air, keeping it suspended and rushed out of the atrium with her.  
  
The crowd murmured in concern, necks craned toward the direction of Sherlock walking briskly as he guided Molly out, keeping her bleeding hand suspended. Whispers of _the poor thing_ and _I hope she’ll be all right_ filled the room. John dusted his jacket off, composing himself when he noticed the seething figure that stood near him.  
  
“Ms Lancaster, is everything…” asked John, walking towards Evelyn. She remained transfixed in the direction of Sherlock and Molly’s retreating figures. When they were out of sight, she took a sharp breath, turned on her heels and walked slowly away. John watched her, bewildered.  
  
“Certainly an evening to remember…” John told himself as the crowd slowly dispersed.  
  
Outside, Sherlock quickly hailed a cab and the two scrambled inside. The slow burn of glass cuts stung Molly’s hand. She winced every two seconds from the pain.  
  
“Are you all right?” Sherlock asked gently, turning to Molly. His eyes softened when he saw her biting her lip to keep from wincing further.  
  
“It’s…fine,” her voice quivered. She was this close to crying from the shock and the pain but she did not want any more embarrassment.  
“Here, just hold your hand up like this and it shouldn’t bleed so much,” said Sherlock, teaching her how to keep her wrist vertical. Molly did as she was told.  
  
“We’ll get you home and clean this up.” Sherlock said.  
“Home?” she asked, puzzled, “I thought you said the emer-…”  
“I can help you with that.” Sherlock said calmly.  
“Oh…right.” Molly answered, a little unsure.  
  
For the first time, Molly saw Sherlock break from his usual posture. He exhaled as he leaned back in his seat, staring up at the roof of the cab. His hair was a messy crop, the deep brown curls covering his bright eyes.  
  
“Are....are you…okay?” she asked, finally.  
“Mmm.” Sherlock answered, not answering at all.  
“Sherlock….”  
“Not now, Molly.” he said, sighing. “Not now.”  
“Okay.”  
  
As he sat, studying the roof of the cab, Molly could see in his eyes that his mind was spinning, as it always did. But his posture was truly unusual. Molly had never imagined she would see him sit like that and so _unwound_. There was also something else she had never seen before in Sherlock. His face, his body, his speech all registered strain, a sort of fatigue. He was always calm, collected, clever, but now, he merely sat there.  
  
Instinctively, with her one good hand, Molly reached across to Sherlock. Her hand paused just before his face when she realised what she was doing. However, she did not resist and gently pushed a few of those curls from his eyes. As she did so, her fingers glided across his cheekbones.  
  
In the few seconds that Molly Hooper touched his face, Sherlock slowly shut his eyes and let her. When her hand left his face, the absence of her fingertips was remarkably distinct. He opened his eyes again and turned to face her. When he did, Molly smiled sheepishly and mouthed, _sorry_.  
  
_She’s always apologising_ , thought Sherlock. It seemed her automated response to everything he said or did to her.  
  
“You look tired.” she said.  
“Hmm, yes…” he replied, looking at her. He was perplexed that the absence of her touch was more indelible than anything that had happened to him that evening.  
“I’ll make you a coffee when we get back,” Molly said, settling into her own seat. “You’d better sleep. My flat’s quite a way away.”  
  
At her words, Sherlock Holmes, the man who never slept, sank back into his seat and let his eyelids fall.


	3. Chapter 3

The taxi drove into the night as Molly sat and Sherlock slept. Molly did her best to hold her hand up properly as she willed the sting of the cuts away. It was quite a sight; one gash across the palm and several ugly cuts between her fingers. The thing about glass cuts is that they do not leave perfect lines as knives do. They seem straight on the surface, but the wound is always jagged, intensifying the bleeding and the pain. Thankfully, if anyone could withstand the sight of blood, cuts and wounds, it was Molly Hooper. The pain was horrid, but the sight, she could stomach.   
  
Just as the taxi turned the corner to Molly’s flat, Sherlock’s eyes somehow opened just in time before it came to a halt. Perhaps he had not slept at all. He swiftly paid the bill and held the door open for Molly. With her good hand, Molly reached into the little handbag that she had over her shoulder and reached for her keys. Sherlock stood patiently beside her, his eyes scanning her hand.   
  
Once they were in the flat, Molly sank gratefully into her sofa. She propped her head up with her good hand as she planted her elbow on the armrest. The contrast in movement was almost amusing. Molly was slow and careful, but Sherlock had stepped right in, whipped his long coat off and began to pace around the small flat.   
  
“Ah, there it is.” he said, reaching for the first aid kit Molly had kept beneath piles of wool and fabric.   
  
“How did you know it was there?” Molly asked, amazed.  
“I know that you do needlework. You sew, knit. In fact, you’d picked it up a few years ago.” Sherlock replied, setting the white box on the dining table.  
“Yes, but how does that link to you knowing to look there?”  
“You weren’t very good when you first started,” he answered, with an amused half-smile, “And so you’d always have it nearby, but now that you _are_ reasonably good, you barely use it… Good gracious, Molly, how old is this iodine solution?”  
  
As he rummaged through the contents of the very unused first aid kit, he removed more expired ointments, tweezers that were brown from rust and band-aids with their adhesives all melted.   
  
“Molly, we need something for the cuts on your hand.” Sherlock asked, as he continued rummaging.   
“I’ll just go rinse the wounds first…I’m sure it’ll be fine,” said Molly, getting up. “I’ve seen worse anyway.”  
  
Molly flipped the lights on in her small kitchen and ran the tap. Taking a deep breath, she shut her eyes and ran her hand under the cold, rushing water. As it rushed over her raw wounds, Molly tried to steady her breathing as the pain rocked her. When she was no longer able to stand it, she quickly shut the tap off and opened her eyes. When she did, she realised they were wet with tears. The pain _was_ terrible.   
  
“Here, dry your wounds.” Sherlock had shown up beside her in the kitchen and handed her a hand towel. “I found it in the bathroom.”   
“Thanks,” said Molly. She walked carefully back to sit at her dining table.  
“I’ve found an antiseptic that we could use. And some gauze and medical tape.” Sherlock said as he sat down beside her.   
  
It was a situation Molly would have never imagined happening to her. That Sherlock was doing something _for_ her. And it seemed, on all accounts, like he cared, somehow, that she was in pain. But then, the thought finally struck her – why had he hurt her in the first place?  
  
“Sherlock…”  
“Hold still first, please.” he said, manoeuvring her arm. When he had her arm flat on the table with her palm facing upward, he rolled up his sleeves and began unscrewing the bottle of antiseptic. Molly waited as he dabbed some of the solution on to some cotton balls.  
  
“This will hurt, Molly. Are you ready?” he said as he looked intently at her hand, his own hand poised over her wounds.   
“Wait. Sherlock…”  
“Yes?” he said, looking up.   
“I-I have a question…” she asked, not knowing where to look.  
“Yes?” asked Sherlock, slowly.   
“At the dance…I mean…at the gala, just now…why…”  
“Why did I dance with you?” interrupted Sherlock.  
“No…that wasn’t it, I…” she responded, her voice shrinking.  
  
It seemed he hadn’t heard her, because Sherlock carried on.  
  
“I needed a diversion, that’s all.” Sherlock answered stonily, “You were there, you were someone I knew, so I asked you to dance.”  
  
Stunned by his response to a question she had not intended to ask, at least not now, Molly just stayed quiet. Her eyes registered puzzlement as her glance darted about the room. Sherlock sighed, putting the cotton ball down.   
  
“Molly, you know me. And you’re a clever girl,” said Sherlock, “So I am positive you know that I don’t _dance_.” He paused deliberately before carefully enunciating the word _dance_ , lengthening its vowel. A few minutes of quiet passed between the two. Sherlock was getting impatient and looked rudely away from Molly. Molly merely sat, her head bowed as she wondered where to look. It was more than Sherlock could bear.  
  
“Molly,” said Sherlock. His voice had hardened.  
“You…always think so fast, you know?” she said, finally, raising her eyes to meet his.   
“That’s no revelation at all…”  
“Will you listen, Sherlock…For once, will you _listen_?” Molly whispered angrily. She looked away and laughed quietly.   
“You asking me for a dance is no different than you asking me for a spleen. You think I don’t know that, Sherlock?”   
“Well, I…” Sherlock barely answered, a little taken aback.   
“I don’t care why you asked me to dance, really, because I’m sure you know I enjoyed it.” Molly said, laughing bitterly.  
  
Breathing hard, Molly willed angry tears back. She stared hard at Sherlock as he returned her gaze with unusually quizzical eyes.   
  
“What…were you going to ask me?” asked Sherlock quietly.  
“Oh,” Molly scoffed, “You’ve only just realised I had a different question in mind?”  
“I…Molly, what is this? You’re not usually like this…” Sherlock asked, perplexed as he studied Molly’s face.   
“Of course, I’m not, Sherlock…you’ve just…cut up my bloody hand!” Molly exclaimed, rising abruptly from her seat.  
“Molly. Calm yourself.” Sherlock said softly.  
  
Standing there, Molly looked down at Sherlock, for the first time in her life. His face that she adored and the bright eyes she loved were right before her. This was a man Molly would _die_ for. Yet, tonight, it was this face, these hands and this man, that plunged a knife so deep into her tiny, bullied heart. It was not as though he had not hurt her before. Those times were manageable, because Molly always knew what she was in for. In spite of everything, Molly _was_ clever.   
  
“Please…leave.” Molly whispered, staring hard at Sherlock.   
“But Molly, your wounds…”  
“I work in a hospital, Sherlock.” she answered. “I can manage just fine. Thank you.”   
  
This was unfamiliar to Sherlock. Never had he such proximity to emotional confrontations as these. Most of all, Molly’s outburst was something that he never saw coming. It perturbed him that he had not seen it. Still, the night was proving hellish, with far too much unnecessary discomfort and tension for Sherlock. He rose slowly from his seat and returned to looking back down at Molly. Usually when he did, her gaze would look shyly away or to the side whilst hiding a smile. This evening, however,when he looked into the pathologist’s eyes, they returned his gaze head on with not a trace of a smile. Molly looked right at Sherlock, then turned and walked towards her window.   
  
“You know the way out.” she said coldly.   
  
Swiftly, Sherlock wrapped his coat around himself and left her flat without a word. When Molly heard her door click shut, she walked back to the table and methodically began dressing her own wounds. Each time the stinging solution burned on her flesh, Molly closed her eyes and remembered her anger towards Sherlock. The burn of her anger and disappointment outdid the mere stinging of flesh.  
  
Suddenly, Molly let out a bitter laugh as she realised she never got to ask her question In the next moment, however, her laugh melted away into a slow exhale as the tears she had resisted, fell gradually from her eyes. Molly refused to sob, but refusing only served to choke her. Still, she breathed deeply, in and out, in and out, fighting tears. As Molly tried to piece what she could of the night’s events together, she knew eventually why Sherlock had hurt her. The awkward dance, Ms Lancaster, suddenly taking flight from the gala – they all pieced themselves together in Molly’s head. Molly was not a fool.  
  
The real question, the real heartbreaking question was this: _How_ could he have hurt her? It was the answer to this question that made Molly almost lose control.   
  
As she continued to carefully clean her wounds, Molly bit down hard on her lip to stave off the sting of her cut, as well as the unpleasant heaviness in her chest.   
  
This would pass, she reminded herself.  
  
It always did, and she always survived.


	4. Chapter 4

In the cab back to Baker Street, Sherlock could not care for the beautiful London lights that streamed past his window. His jaw was clenched tight as he stared intently ahead, focusing on deleting all irrelevant information that had trespassed his mind. What seemed like a chaotic, flurry of events replayed themselves clearly in his sharp memory as he slowly removed each moment. In spite of his acute awareness of everything in his environment, Sherlock had neglected to notice that his mobile phone had been buzzing in his jacket pocket considerably since leaving the gala. He was only made aware of it when it buzzed on the cab ride home, snapping him out of his little mental rearrangement exercise. Reaching into his jacket, he was predicting a whole slew of texts and missed calls. Anyone could guess that Mycroft would be frantically contacting Sherlock. After blowing off his debt to Mycroft and blowing it off in such terrible fashion, Mycroft was sure to be livid. Sherlock took a deep breath as he swiped across his mobile screen, unlocking it. Sure enough, there were a few missed calls from Mycroft. After all, Mycroft always preferred to call. Since Sherlock had not answered any of them, Mycroft had made an exception.   
  
_I’ve just spoken to Ms Lancaster. Can this be true?_ – M.  
  
_I must say I’m impressed. I was expecting worse._ – M  
  
_I never imagined you would listen to me.  
You’ve certainly surprised me this evening. _ – M  
  
_She was absolutely delighted and thanked me profusely.  
You didn’t use a decoy or something, did you?   
Paid one of your homeless chaps to impersonate you or something? _ – M  
  
_In any case, I am grateful.  
She’s happy, her father’s spoken with me and we can safely say the night was a success.   
Your debt is no more. Goodnight, Sherlock. _ – M   
  
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he read and re-read those last two messages. His heart could not help but beat a little harder against his chest as the same panic he had felt all evening crept into his veins again.   
  
“How is this possible?” he whispered to himself. It was a good thing Mycroft seemed pleased. It meant months of peace, maybe even a year of peace, without his brother constantly poking about his business, but how Evelyn Lancaster could _possibly_ have been delighted simply evaded the consulting detective. Sherlock shoved his phone back into his jacket pocket and stared out of the window. The harsh street lamps felt harsher still as they beamed down his face. Sherlock was in a dilemma. He wanted everything about this evening to leave his mind. Everything about the gala and Ms Lancaster, he wanted out of his mind. It was clear, however, that this was not the end. There was something terribly wrong and Sherlock could feel it seep into his bones. The dilemma that racked Sherlock was whether to pursue this feeling or not. Was she up to something? Was she going to interfere with him some more? These were things he never imagined having to think about and he certainly did not want to, but it seemed he was at the cusp of something. Sherlock thought back at her feverish gaze whenever she looked at him and the chilling way in which she reached for him.   
  
_This dance mustn’t end, Sherlock_.   
  
The words swam up to the surface of his mind as Sherlock analysed their gravity. _No,_ he thought, _you won’t let it._ He was going to see Evelyn Lancaster very soon. Sherlock sighed angrily as he clenched his fists. Everything he had put way neatly now came flooding back. The first time she reached for his bow tie, the way she had contoured her body to fit his, that soft but repulsive kiss she left on his skin. Sherlock shuddered at her unwanted proximity. The mad thirst for his attention unnerved him, but how dangerous was this madness going to be? Shutting his eyes now, Sherlock began to think long and hard about everything Evelyn Lancaster had done or said. Despite having put everything away, Sherlock’s train of thought moved slowly and meticulously through each detail of everything that had occurred tonight.   
  
In uncharacteristic fashion, Sherlock’s thoughts swarmed him so much that he had not realised the taxi had stopped right at his door.  
  
“Sir, we’ve arrived. 221B Baker Street, wasn’t it?” asked the cabby.   
“Hmm?” Oh yes, thank you.” Sherlock muttered, clumsily pulling out a few notes and handing them to the cabby.   
  
As the cab sped off, Sherlock opened the door that led to his flat. While peeling his long coat off himself, Sherlock trudged slowly up only to be met with John standing right at the top of the stairs.  
  
“I promise I won’t ask what the _hell_ you were thinking just now at the gala,” John began, “But I do want to know if Molly’s all right.”   
“She’s fine.” Sherlock answered, walking right past John. He hooked his coat casually behind his room door and cricked his neck.   
“How’s her hand?”  
“If you’re so concerned about Molly why don’t you go see her at her flat?” Sherlock replied nonchalantly. He took his loosened bow tie out from his pocket and threw it on his desk   
“Her flat? I thought you were bringing her to the emergency room?” John asked, walking up to Sherlock.  
“Not for a few cuts.” Sherlock replied, his back still to John.   
“A few cuts? Sherlock, you rammed an entire wine glass into that poor girl’s hand…”  
“It’s not like I’d killed her.” Sherlock replied coldly, turning to face John.   
  
John laughed, shaking his head.   
  
“You… are cold-blooded. Really, you are.”   
“Say what you will. I have more urgent things to think about.”   
“Like what?” John asked angrily.   
“Never you mind,” Sherlock replied, pausing to check his phone. No calls, no messages.   
  
John watched Sherlock as he continued looking through his phone. He could not believe how calm and collected Sherlock seemed after what was clearly a dramatic evening. John took a deep breath and attempted conversation again.   
  
“Sherlock, why…”  
“I thought you promised you weren’t going to ask?” Sherlock interrupted, returning his phone to his pocket.   
“Fine. I suppose it _is_ pointless asking a crazy man why he does crazy things.”  
“It wasn’t crazy.”   
  
Sighing, John sat himself down in his usual armchair. Unexpectedly, Sherlock sat down in the other armchair across from John, staring past Johns’ head and into the kitchen. It was clear that the wheels in Sherlock’s mind had begun moving and he was thinking hard. John knew from the way Sherlock’s eyes, at first glance, seemed to glaze over but upon deeper inspection, could see just the tiniest movements in the iris as thoughts danced about in Sherlock’s head.   
  
“Well, then I’ll ask you something else.” John said, breaking the silence.  
“There really is no need for you to talk at this moment, John.” Sherlock replied. His eyes focused on something far away as his mind spun.   
“Are _you_ all right?” asked John.   
“Yes, perfectly fine.”   
“Did you get hurt?”  
“No.”  
“Did you help Molly with her wounds?”  
“Yes. Well, sort of.”  
“Right, I’ll just…assume you helped, somehow,” said John, “Did you apologise?”  
“Apologise?” Sherlock’s eyes shifted from their far-off gaze onto John’s face.   
“Yes. Apologise.” John replied. “It’s what humans do if they’ve hurt one another.”  
“I offered to dress her wounds.”  
“Offered? So you didn’t actually check on her wounds?”  
“I went up to her flat, found the medical supplies…” Sherlock frowned as the scene replayed itself, “Then she lost it a bit and I was told to leave the flat.”  
“What did you say to her to make her chase you out of her flat?” John asked, incredulous.  
“I don’t remember.”  
“You don’t remember? Sherlock Holmes does not _not_ remember.”  
“I might remember, later on.” Sherlock said, as he reached for his violin, “Like I said, I have more pressing issues at hand.”  
  
Brusque and irregular notes burst out of Sherlock’s violin as he ran the bow rapidly across the violin strings. John flinched from Sherlock’s somewhat aggressive melody. Unable to stand it, John rose abruptly from his seat and yanked the violin out from beneath Sherlock’s chin.   
  
“You are inconsiderate to me, rude to Mrs Hudson and bratty to Mycroft. But you’ve never laid a finger on us. Never. You are as rude to Molly as you are to us but _how_ could you have just hurt her like that? And without even a semblance of an apology after?” John exclaimed, staring hard at Sherlock.   
  
“Go and apologise to Molly. First thing tomorrow.” John demanded.  
“I brought her home, offered to dress her wounds. Surely that counts as more than an apol-…”  
“Are you _stupid_?” Is Molly some sort of rag doll to you, Sherlock?” John interrupts, angrily.  
“A rag doll?” Sherlock said, “Why would you say that?”  
“Are you sure you’re the world’s best consulting detective?” John asked sarcastically.   
  
With a deep sigh, Sherlock rose slowly from his seat, placing his violin bow on the mantelpiece. Sherlock was in no mood to be lectured tonight and certain not from the moral compass himself.  
  
“All right. I will apologise.” Sherlock muttered reluctantly.  
“Tomorrow.”  
“As soon as I can.”  
“Fine. You make sure you do that.”  
  
As John walked off to his room, Sherlock shut his eyes and tilted his head back. Rarely did Sherlock get plagued by headaches, but tonight, the tension gripped his temples. How he longed for a cigarette to help ease the knot, but no, this was no time to relax. Like he said, there were more pressing issues at hand. 

* * *

 

Evelyn had her mobile phone pressed to her ear as she sat comfortably by her dressing table. She was wrapped in a black silk robe. Her dark brown hair was out of its chignon and flowed like waves down her back.   
  
“Yes, it was lovely. They served your favourite champagne.” said Evelyn brightly. With her free hand, she ran a brush through her hair whilst checking her reflection.  
  
“It’s a pity you couldn’t come tonight. You could have met Sherlock too.” When she said his name, Evelyn gripped the brush a little tighter, her eyes darkening.   
  
“What’s he like? Oh, he was charming, daddy. Just as I had imagined.” Evelyn said with a slow smile moving across on her face.   
  
“What’s that? Will I see him again?” Rising from her dressing table, Evelyn sank down gracefully into her bed. Her brown hair lay sprawled around her, like a pool of dark bronze.   
  
“Of course, Daddy. Of course.”


	5. Chapter 5

The familiar chords of a digital marimba slowly chimed through Molly’s ears, waking her, causing her eyes to open. It was Monday morning and work beckoned. She reached for her phone and silenced its alarm. Turning to lie flat on her back, Molly did a little stretch and remembered her hands. She brought her fingers close to her face and examined them. She had bandaged them nicely and although they felt a little tender, the bleeding had stopped. Or so she had thought. When Molly sat up, she noticed her pillow was stained where she had been resting her hands under head. Thin, maroon streaks of dried blood decorated the edge of her pillow. “Shoot.” Molly muttered to herself as she whipped the pillow cover off and threw it in her laundry basket.   
  
Despite having her fingers swathed in gauze and the base of her palm bandaged, Molly functioned as per normal. She was able to make her tea her usual elaborate way and had an uneventful breakfast as usual. She got dressed with no problem and put up her hair just fine. Of course, she took great pains not to knock her hand about, but Molly was fine. All in all, this was just another normal Monday.   
  
At the hospital, Molly put her things away in her locker, put on her coat and headed for the pathology lab. She was in the midst of a few projects, not to mention the daily intake of bodies she had to process.   
  
“Morning, Molly.” said a cheerful, plump man writing busily on a little clipboard.   
“Morning, Dr Wright,” she replied with a smile.   
“How was your Sunday evening then? Had fun at the gala?” he asked, looking up from his writing.  
“Oh…uh, splendid.” Molly answered. “The exhibit was lovely and so was the food. Excellent chocolate tarts.” She chuckled as Dr Wright nodded approvingly.   
“Nothing like a good chocolate dessert to make a perfect evening,” he remarked. “If I hadn’t had to oversee that little emergency at the nursing home, I could have been there.”  
“That’s what happens when you’re the Head of Pathology. The bosses never get to play,” said Molly with a laugh. “It’s a pity you weren’t there. Those were good chocolate tarts. You’d have liked them.”  
“Oh I know I would have, Molly,” said Dr Wright, with a hearty laugh as he drummed his fingers over his generous belly. “Without a shadow of a doubt.” Molly and her supervisor chuckled happily before continuing with their tasks.   
  
Molly began with her usual routine of looking through her schedule of work for the day. She ran through the list of bodies she had to process, made note of any special cases and readied all the necessary paperwork. Just as she was flipping through her files, she heard a sudden crash and clatter.   
  
“I’m getting clumsy with age,” muttered Dr Wright with a sigh as he got up from his seat. He had dropped his entire box of stationery. Pencils and pens were rolling away as callipers, scissors and paperclips lay scattered all over the floor.   
  
“Here, let me help.” Molly said, swiftly picking up all the escaping paraphernalia.   
  
In a few minutes, Molly had helped Dr Wright gather everything. She walked over to his end of the lab and handed him his stationery. Immediately, Dr Wright saw the bandages on Molly’s hand and exclaimed.   
  
“Goodness, Molly. What happened to your hand?”  
“Oh, just a few cuts, no matter,” she said, shrugging her shoulders.   
“I don’t like the look of them,” said Dr Wright, gingerly turning her hand to face him. He pointed to the base of the bandages and Molly could see that they were just beginning to get stained with blood.   
“I thought the bleeding had stopped,” said Molly with a sigh. “I didn’t feel a thing.”  
“Well, clearly it hasn’t stopped.” said Dr Wright, frowning.  
“I’ll go get them dressed and bandaged again,” said Molly   
“Yes, you do just that and then you go _straight_ home,” her supervisor instructed.  
“It’s fine, Dr Wright, I can still…”  
“Doctor’s orders, Molly. We can handle the workload for now. You don’t come back till it’s healed,” said Dr Wright firmly.  
“Well, I’m a doctor too, sort of. So I think it’s fine and I can continue.” argued Molly.  
“In that case, it’s supervisor’s orders. As your boss, I am giving you four days of medical leave. Go home and get your hand healed.” Dr Wright insisted.  
“But Dr Wright…”  
“Don’t argue with your boss, Molly. Go home. Get well.” Dr Wright said kindly.   
  
Resigned, Molly gathered what would have been the day’s work and handed them to Dr Wright.   
  
“You sure about this?” she asked him, worried.  
“We’ll be fine, Molly.” Dr Wright said, smiling, “You work too hard anyway. I don’t remember the last time you had a day off.”   
“Well, it’s a great place to be.” Molly said, smiling.  
“Not many people would say that, not even pathologists.” Dr Wright said with a chuckle. “See you on Friday, Molly.”  
“Thanks, Dr Wright.” 

* * *

Sherlock had had a full night to think. He rarely slept and last night had clearly not been a night for sleeping. The whole situation with Evelyn had hung around him like a dark cloud, refusing to clear. Not only did it refuse to budge, it threatened to storm and Sherlock could not shake the unnerving feeling that his grave mistake at the gala was going to cost him - and his brother - a lot more than she had let on.   
  
On top of that, John had reminded him of one last irritating detail: Molly. There was no consequence to be had, fussing over what had happened with Molly. This was a small matter and it irritated Sherlock no end that John had brought it up. And now that he _had_ mentioned it, the thought of having to apologise to Molly was refusing to budge too. Two separate situations, linked by the tiniest thread, weighed down on Sherlock’s mind.   
  
“Good morning.” said John, joining Sherlock at the breakfast table. “Slept well?”  
“Marvellously.” Sherlock replied, staring out of the window.   
“Hmm. Right. Not eating either, I see.” said John, staring down at Sherlock’s untouched breakfast that Mrs Hudson had prepared.   
“I had some tea.”  
“Of course.” John said, pouring himself a cup.  
  
John watched Sherlock from the rim of his teacup as he sipped his Earl Grey. The same far-off look occupied Sherlock’s face. As usual, John could read nothing from Sherlock’s expression. All he knew was that Sherlock was being Sherlock, locked in his thoughts.   
  
“If you’re not going to eat that, I am.” John said, reaching for Sherlock’s plate. “Mrs Hudson’s wasted enough food on you.”   
“Be my guest.” Sherlock answered quietly, not caring in the least.  
  
John smirked and began tucking away at the breakfast. It had not been prepared too long ago, so the eggs were still warm and the toast had not gotten entirely soggy.   
  
“So…” began John.  
“Mmm?”   
“You going to Bart’s today?”  
“What for?”  
  
John sighed and put down his cutlery. He glared hard at Sherlock who still gazed out of the window.   
  
“To apologise to Molly.” said John. “I said to do it first thing in the morning.”  
“People are just so…needy,” muttered Sherlock.   
“Molly doesn’t _need_ your apology, Sherlock. But you owe it to her.”   
“Why don’t _you_ do it then?” Sherlock replied, coldly.   
“Because I didn’t shove a glass –“ John paused and collected himself. “Just do it, Sherlock. Get it out of the way.”  
  
At this, Sherlock turned to John and looked right at him. John looked back, unsure of what Sherlock was going to do.   
  
“Yes,” Sherlock said with a smirk, “Thank you, John.” He rose abruptly from his seat and put his coat and scarf on.   
  
“What? Where are you going?” he asked, his eyes following Sherlock.   
“To get things out of the way.” Sherlock said. “Just like you said.”  
“Just….don’t be rude…again, Sherlock.” John said, resigned. The concept of an apology was clearly still foreign to the man. With a smirk and a wave, Sherlock briskly exited the flat and headed for Molly’s workplace.   
  
Dr Wright was sitting quietly at his desk in the pathology lab when the doors swung open. He looked up from his reports and saw that it was Sherlock.   
  
“Ah, Mr Holmes. How can I help you?” he asked, amused. Dr Wright knew of Sherlock’s shenanigans at the hospital. He often reprimanded Molly for not being firm enough with Sherlock, but he himself had encountered the stubbornness of the detective on a few occasions, thus sympathised with her also.   
  
“I can’t loan you whole brains, Mr Holmes. Not again.” said Dr Wright.  
“Pity.” Sherlock replied, his eyes scanning the lab. “But I’m here to see Molly.”  
“I sent Molly home.”   
“Home? Why?” asked Sherlock.   
“She’s got some nasty wounds on her hand. They were still bleeding. So I sent her home.”  
“Really?” Sherlock’s eyes widened. A small but surprising wave of concern swept through him.   
“Yes. Four days, I gave her.”  
“That’s ridiculous, doctor. It’s just a cut or two.”  
“Molly works very hard, Mr Holmes,” said Dr Wright, crossing his arms and looking right at Sherlock. “I think she deserves a few days to let her hand rest.”  
“She likes being in the lab. You should have let her stay.” Sherlock said, indignant.   
“The girl doesn’t know moderation. She stays back so late sometimes just so she can do her own research _after_ she’s cleared her daily paperwork. She’s a diligent one. Foolishly diligent. But her work is remarkable.”  
“The best.” Sherlock replied automatically.  
“Well, I’m glad you appreciate our Molly.”  
“Like I said, she is the best.”   
  
“She really is,” said Dr Wright, looking up from his reports. “In fact, I had to refer to her dissertation the other day for a spot of research on a case. She made her name in the pathology world with that paper.”   
“She did? What was her paper about?” Sherlock’s curiosity was piqued.   
“Time-stamping death,” replied Dr Wright. “She had been researching ways to calculate the different rates of decay of flesh; post-injury, pre-death and post death.”  
“Interesting. Go on.” Sherlock said. He was almost giddy from curiosity and pleased that his mind could focus on something else for a change.   
“This is particularly important research for cases of unnatural death, where severe injury, mutilation or dismemberment take place.” Dr Wright began searching through a folder of his and found the chapter of Molly’s paper.   
“I imagine so…” breathed Sherlock, as Dr Wright handed the papers to him.   
“In fact, Molly had to fly to Japan a couple of years ago to head a research team at a university assisting the local police. They had specially contacted her to assist in a particularly horrific mutilation case. Distributed body parts and all that serial killer jazz.”  
“I remember her being away in Japan.” Sherlock said as he flipped through the document. “She didn’t tell me why she had gone though.”  
“Why should she?” remarked Dr Wright.   
  
Sherlock looked up at Dr Wright as the thought struck him. Yes, Molly had gone for a whole month and he had had virtually no access to the morgue. Why had she not told him where she had gone? Had it not mattered to her? Then, a more puzzling thought struck Sherlock - why did it matter to him that she had left without informing him?   
  
“So…did she, um, solve the case?” Sherlock asked, trying to change this new train of thought.   
“Of course.” replied Dr Wright. “Because of Molly, they pieced the whole crime together, countering the entire alibi. Time of dismemberment, time of storage and time of death, all calculated to the very hour of the day.”  
“Impressive.” Sherlock said, in genuine awe.  
“That’s our Molly.” Dr Wright said, beaming.   
“Hmm, yes.” Sherlock handed the papers back to Dr Wright and looked a little absentmindedly around the lab.   
  
Dr Wright eyed Sherlock who still stood before him. He put Molly’s paper back into the folder and looked back up at Sherlock.   
  
“Is there anything else I can help you with, Mr Holmes? I’ve already told you, Molly is not here…”  
“What’s she working on, currently?” asked Sherlock. He couldn’t help himself. Sherlock did always enjoy poking his nose around Molly’s work and this whole new revelation of her brilliance tickled his curiosity - and also his fancy.   
“Well,” sighed Dr Wright, “If you must know, Mr Holmes…”  
“I must.”   
“Right, well, she’s currently in the middle of a long and intricate report about a body that came in just before the weekend.”  
“What’s so long and intricate about this one?” asked Sherlock.  
“Here, you can read her preliminary analysis sent to me.” Dr Wright said, handing the report to Sherlock.   
  
Sherlock’s eyes scanned the document greedily. These were the things he would gladly fill his brain with. As he read through the report, his eyes lit up in fascination over the brilliant analysis.   
  
“Impressive, isn’t it?” said Dr Wright, taking the report out from Sherlock’s hands.   
“Very,” Sherlock replied, the glint of admiration for Molly glowing in his eyes.   
“Who would have thought to link the engorged capillaries around the eyeball with high blood pressure medication?” Dr Wright remarked with a laugh.” We thought the man had died of liver failure, but his liver was fine!”   
  
Sherlock smiled knowingly and thought of all the times Molly had helped him with his own tricky experiments. It never failed to amaze him how she was always able to keep up and would spot anomalies, especially in their chemical analyses.   
  
“I guess Molly always knows where to look. Only she would have thought to examine his eyes.” Dr Wright continued.   
  
“Yes. It’s noted here he wore vanity lenses daily for his job. Frequent contact lens use would deprive the eyes of oxygen, increasing capillary growth around the eyes to increase the intake of oxygenated blood. But if there was already a pre-existing condition of high blood pressure and a case of poorly-timed medication…brilliant.” Sherlock said, clasping his hands together.   
  
Dr Wright laughed and straightened his stack of reports.   
  
“I can see why you like working with her.”  
“The best with the best, doctor.” Sherlock said with a smirk.   
  
“Anyway,” said Dr Wright, “What did you want Molly for? Can I take a message?”  
“Oh, it’s nothing. Thank you, doctor.”  
“All right then, have a good day, Mr Holmes.”  
“Same to you.”   
  
As Sherlock headed for the door, his hand paused on the door handle and turned back to look at Dr Wright. The Head of Pathology, who had resumed working on his reports, looked up quizzically at the detective.   
  
“Dr Wright?” said Sherlock.  
“Yes, Mr Holmes?” a puzzled Dr Wright replied.   
“Could I take a look at those eyeballs?”  
“No, you may not!” exclaimed Dr Wright with a laugh. “Now, be off or I shall have to have you escorted out.”  
“It was worth a try.” Sherlock remarked with a smile, waving goodbye to Dr Wright. 

* * *

Along a pristine white corridor lined with tall glass windows, an impeccably dressed Evelyn Lancaster led a group of interested investors on a tour of St. Bart’s. Her sharp black heels clicked confidently against the ground she walked on, smoothly and wittily wooing the group of men and women who represented some of the biggest companies in the country.   
  
“These glass windows here have all been fitted with the latest state-of-the-art eco-technology to capture all this sunlight we have here into usable energy.” Evelyn explained eloquently to her group of guests. “We firmly believe in keeping the hospital as up-to-date as possible with being energy-efficient, a goal which I’m sure aligns very closely with your own companies.”  
  
The investors nodded, impressed. Some took closer looks at the actual window frame where Evelyn was very happy to point out the gadgetry and wiring behind these state-of-the-art windows. The murmuring group of people was interrupted by the sounds of brisk footsteps as Sherlock Holmes appeared, walking down the very same corridor.   
  
When Evelyn looked up, the detective was striding towards her with his head buried in checking his mobile phone. He was oblivious that she was there. Unable to resist, she called out to him.   
  
“Mr Holmes…”  
  
Sherlock stopped when the unpleasantly familiar voice called out his name. He paused in his steps and lifted his eyes only to see her face right before him. As quickly as he had seen her, he averted his gaze to study the group that surrounded her.   
  
“Ah, an investor’s tour.” Sherlock remarked, nodding his head politely at the group. His eyes glazed over Evelyn’s face as he continued to address the group. “This is a fine establishment. And it will do you well to give us your money to keep it going. Your generosity is appreciated. Good afternoon.”  
  
The investors stared wide-eyed at Sherlock’s brazen little request as he gave them a smirk and began to walk away. Evelyn, who had clearly been ignored, was not letting herself be ignored.   
  
“Mr Holmes is a frequent presence here at St. Bart’s.” Evelyn began. “Our hospital is proud to be a resource for a brilliant mind as Mr Holmes. Where have you just come from, Mr Holmes?”   
  
Stopping again n his tracks, Sherlock turned slowly to look at her. The group had their faces turned towards him, eagerly awaiting his response.   
  
“Pathology.” Sherlock replied. The moment he said it, a strange sinking feeling of regret came over him.   
“Pathology? Oh.” Evelyn replied, forcing a smile upon her face. “A case with Ms Hooper… perhaps?”  
“No,” Sherlock answered, carefully this time. “I went to see Dr Wright about a body.”  
“You’re lying…” Evelyn whispered. The investors closer to her turned to her and frowned, puzzled.  
“Good day, Ms Lancaster.” Sherlock said, his eyes firmly boring into her, before finally turning around and walking away from her.   
  
As he walked away, Evelyn took a slow, deep breath, mustered a beautiful smile and turned to face her guests.   
  
“I believe this is a good time to pay a visit to our excellent, _excellent_ pathology lab.” Evelyn began. “There is much there for us to discover, I’m sure.” 

* * *

Sherlock strode out of the St. Bart’s doors and studied the streets before him. His brief moment with Evelyn was immediately dropped from his mind. Instead, he shut his eyes to remember Molly’s address and thought about her commute back home.   
  
“This way…” he told himself, as he began walking.   
  
Molly could not have been far as she had only just left a little before Sherlock had shown up in front of Dr Wright. He found himself walking faster and faster, wanting to find her as soon as possible. He scanned all the heads that bobbed in front of him.   
  
“Ponytail too short, that hair is far too dry, wrong shade of auburn, her ears don’t stick out so much, she would never wear a scarf in that shade…” murmured Sherlock to himself as he wove through the crowds. He was hoping she would still be within a reasonable radius of the hospital. Quickening his pace, Sherlock hurried to find his best pathologist at St. Bart’s.  
  
“There she is…” Sherlock exclaimed as he ran towards a familiar, swishing ponytail. As he got closer, he realised it was not Molly and stopped abruptly in his tracks. As he skidded to a halt, he bumped into a fellow pedestrian and fell over.   
  
“I am so sorry!” exclaimed the apologetic housewife who had collided into him.  
“It’s fine,” said Sherlock, who found himself sitting on the pavement in front of a newsagents. “Are you hurt?” asked the housewife who was deeply worried.   
“I told you, it’s fine…” said Sherlock as he tried to get up.  
  
“Sherlock?” came a familiar voice. He turned his head and saw the face he had been trying to find all morning.   
“Molly,” he said with a half-smile on his face.  
“Are you all right?” she asked, worried. She had just stepped out of the newsagents when she saw the whole incident.  
“Yes, yes…”  
“Here, let me help you…it’s all right, ma’am, he’s my friend, I’ve got him.” Said Molly to the lady as she helped Sherlock up.   
  
When Sherlock got up, he dusted himself up and cricked his neck. Molly stood in front of his towering frame and just watched him.   
  
“You sure you’re okay? Didn’t bruise or graze yourself, did you?” asked Molly quietly.   
“I’m fine, Molly.” Sherlock replied. “What’s happened to you?”  
“What do you mean, what’s happened to me?” she asked.  
“I mean…how’s your hand?”   
“It’s…fine. Just a bit messy.” she said, holding her bandaged hand up.   
“Hmm, I see.”  
  
The two of them stood there, in the middle of the pavement, outside the newsagents. Molly held on to her shopping bag tightly as her eyes darted around, not knowing where to look, as was always the case when Sherlock spoke with her. Sherlock looked down at her and realised for the first time how virtually impossible it was to catch her eye.   
  
“So, um…I’m just going to go then, seeing as you’re all right. Bye.” Molly said before hurrying off.   
“Molly…” Sherlock called, as he went after her.  
  
Molly turned around, surprised he called out after her.   
  
“Molly…” Sherlock said, a little unsure of what to say.  
“Yes, Sherlock?” she asked, looking at him quizzically.   
  
“Would you like to have coffee?” said Sherlock, with a smile on his face.  
  
There was silence. Sherlock looked at Molly, and Molly, again, did not quite know where to look. This was all very confusing to her. Perhaps she had hit her head somewhere and did not know it. Needless to say, the memory of the gala night remained fresh. She was now doubly wary of him. He would always have a small place in Molly’s heart, but she knew now how terribly unpredictable and uncaring he really was.   
  
“I don’t drink coffee.” Molly replied stoically.  
“Well, I didn’t mean coffee literally…”  
“Oh!” Molly exclaimed bitterly, “So you _do_ know what I mean when I ask _you_ for coffee? Good, good, I’m glad you do…” She laughed softly and shook her heard. Historic embarrassment came rushing back in a flood to Molly. Embarrassment from all the times he had casually turned her question around to result in a solitary mug of coffee for himself.  
  
“So, now that you’ve had your fun. I’m just…going to go.” said Molly, smiling bitterly at Sherlock before turning on her heels to head home.   
“Molly,” Sherlock said, stopping her as he reached for her arm.  
“What?” she replied, not turning to look at him.  
“I just wanted to apologise.” Sherlock said, finally. There was a streak of genuine tenderness in his voice. “And I shouldn’t have…asked you that way, using that phrase. I could have been kinder.”  
“Yes, you certainly could have.” Molly said, turning to face him finally as his hand slipped away from her.   
“I just…didn’t know how to ask for a moment to apologise.” Sherlock confessed.   
“You could have just said it, Sherlock.”   
“Yes, I know now.” Sherlock said quietly.  
  
Again, the two of them were standing before each other in silence on the street. Sherlock’s eyes looked warily at Molly as Molly lifted her head to look properly at him.   
  
“Look at you,” she said, with a sigh as she briefly touched her fingers to his hand, “You _have_ grazed your hand.”  
“It’s nothing. Especially compared to yours.” Sherlock replied. His meekness surprised Molly and it softened her anger a little.  
“Next time you want to apologise, Sherlock,” said Molly to the detective, “Just apologise.”  
“I’ll remember.” he said with a small smile.  
“Right,” said Molly, “I guess an apology from you is worth hearing.” Sherlock laughed, and so did Molly.   
“I have a favourite tea place, two streets down, just at the corner.” Molly said, her eyes lighting up beautifully as they always did.   
“Would you like to have tea, Sherlock?” she asked, looking right at him.  
  
“Yes, Molly,” replied the detective, taking her shopping bag from her, “I would.” 


	6. Chapter 6

After a quiet but strangely comfortable walk, the pair found themselves outside Molly’s favourite tea shop. It was a small establishment with two businesses. You could get yourself a fantastic blend of tea, or a lovely bouquet of flowers. It was both a tea shop and a florist’s. When they stepped in, the shop-owner, Terence, recognised Molly immediately and went up to greet her. He ushered the pair personally to their seats and left them with two menus.   
  
“They do _lovely_ teas here, Sherlock.” Molly exclaimed, her eyes wandering around the shop in delight. “I love all their different blends of tea. Some of them smell so beautiful I just want to use them as potpourri sometimes. They just have _so many_ varieties I could almost cry from how…” Molly stopped herself when she realised she was just rambling about her love for tea to Sherlock. He stared at her, bemused, and silent as always.  
  
“Oh, um, they don’t serve coffee here, I’m afraid. But I’ll get Terence to make you one.” Molly said to Sherlock.  
“I should like that, Molly. Thank you.” Sherlock replied, shutting the menu and putting it away.   
  
Molly waved Terence over and began to place their orders.   
  
“What’ll it be Molly?” asked Terence cheerfully.  
“I’ll get my usual rose and vanilla tea, Terence. Thanks.”  
“And for your friend?” he asked, giving her a wink.  
“Oh…um…could you just make him a black coffee? With sugar, please.”    
“No problem. Be right back.” Terence jotted it all down and walked back to the counter.   
  
“What was that wink for?” Sherlock asked.   
“Oh…nothing.” Molly answered.  
“It wasn’t some, socially inappropriate gesture, I hope?”   
“Oh, no, no!” Molly exclaimed, half amused. “Nothing of that sort.”  
“Then?”  
“It’s just…” Molly didn’t quite know how to answer. “I guess...it’s because I’m just..usually here by myself.”   
“Hmm…I see.”  
  
They sat in silence for a while. Molly stared awkwardly at everything around except Sherlock. She had even forgotten what they had come here for and that he was supposed to be apologising to her. Sherlock kept himself busy with the occasional text message and studying the list of teas and their Latin names. It seemed he had forgotten as well.   
  
Soon, Terence arrived with their drinks. He placed a little glass teapot down with a matching glass teacup and saucer. The belly of the teapot had little rose buds swirling around in it. He then placed Sherlock’s coffee before him and left them. Just as Sherlock brought the steaming cup of black coffee to his lips, Molly exclaimed.  
  
“Oh, wait…”  
“What’s the matter?” he asked, the cup hovering in front of his lips.   
“He forgot the sugar.”  
“The sugar? How can you tell?” Sherlock asked, peering into the black liquid.   
  
Molly laughed as Sherlock continued to frown at his coffee, then at her.   
  
“I suppose, you’ve always had coffee made for you…domestically…”  
“Domestically?”  
“I mean to say…not all coffees come with, you know, your desired amount of sugar already stirred and blended inside.”   
“Oh…”  
“In places like these…they’re served separately.” Molly explained, waving Terence over again.   
  
“Yes, dear?” Terence asked.  
“Could we get a pot of sugar please?”  
  
Terence was soon back with a little porcelain bowl of sugar cubes. Molly picked up the pair of tongs that came with it and put two sugars into Sherlock’s coffee.  
  
“There. Now it’s complete.” She said, smiling.  
“Thank you.” Sherlock said, thoughtful.    
  
They then quietly sipped their drinks, not a single word exchanged.   
  
“You’re unusually quiet, Molly.” Sherlock remarked.   
“I remembered not to make conversation around you.” Molly replied swiftly.   
  
Her reaction surprised him. It was fluent, almost confident.   
  
“You know, Molly…” Sherlock began.   
“Yes?”  
“If I’m such unpleasant company, why do you still bother with me?”  
“That’s because…” Molly paused to sip her tea, “I still enjoy your company.”  
“Why would you?” Sherlock was baffled. There was no logic to this.   
“I don’t know.” Molly shrugged. “Stockholm Syndrome, perhaps.”    
“Come again?” Sherlock looked at her, a little shocked.   
“Sorry...” Molly laughed quietly, “That was a bad joke. Sorry.”  
“No…” Sherlock replied, “It was quite a good one, actually.”   
“Well then, I guess there’s a first for everything.”  
  
Sherlock finished his last mouthful coffee as Molly continued to slowly sip her tea.   
  
“Speaking of firsts, Molly.”  
“Yes?”  
  
Sherlock took a deep breath and clasped his hands before him.   
  
“I did say I wanted to apologise.”  
“Yes, you did.” Molly answered, remembering.   
“So…” Sherlock took a deep breath, “I am sorry, Molly. For everything.”  
“Wow…” Molly whispered.  
“What?”  
“I didn’t think you were going to do it.”  
“You didn’t?”  
“No, Sherlock, I really didn’t.” she said, looking up at him. “Because I don’t think you’re capable of it.”  
“I…see.” Sherlock replied, frowning.  
“Thank you for trying, though.” Molly said, giving him a reassuring smile. “I appreciate it.”  
  
Sherlock studied her smile but could not understand it. He did not understand the measure of comfort it brought to him knowing that his apology had led to this smile. Sherlock realised that because he had not known what it meant to apologise, he did not know what it meant to be forgiven. What really struck him was how much it _felt_ to know one was forgiven. Except Molly had not _quite_ forgiven him. She did not believe his apology, because it was impossible to.   
  
“Right.” said Molly, “Your coffee’s done, my tea’s finished…I suppose, it’s time to go.”   
“Let me get this.”   
“Of course.” Molly couldn't help but smile. “Thank you.”   
  
When they stepped out of the tea shop, Molly looked up at Sherlock, a warm smile on her face. Molly was never without a smile, really. That was the depth of her sweetness. For the first time, Sherlock made note of this side of her. Molly was always a little nervous, a little awkward and would make terrible jokes, but she was _always_ lovely. This curious new element that now presented itself to Sherlock baffled him. It baffled him not because he never _knew_ it existed, but because it made him feel something. What it was he felt, he was not sure, but there certainly was something there.   
  
“Do you know your way home?” asked Sherlock, in uncharacteristic absentmindedness.   
“Of course I do, Sherlock.” Molly said with a laugh, “Why wouldn’t I?”  
“I meant to say, get home safe.”   
“Thanks. You too.”  
  
Molly turned and began her walk home. Sherlock remained where he was, watching her walk away, her light, auburn ponytail swaying with her rhythm. It was only then that Sherlock realised Molly had not forgiven him, she had only thanked him for trying. The minute ache it brought him was unfamiliar. He forced it out of his mind and quickly turned away and headed back to Baker Street. 

* * *

Dr Wright was having a small briefing with his team of pathologists, discussing the week’s roster since Molly had been sent home. As he was going through the adjusted schedule, there came a knock on the lab door when a group of very smartly dressed people let themselves in.   
  
“Good afternoon, Dr Wright,” Evelyn chimed.  
“Ms Lancaster, what brings you here to our lab?”   
“Well, I’ve got some very important guests with me who are eager to learn more about this fine establishment.” she turned to lavish a smile upon her guests, “So we’re here to visit, a hospital tour, if you will.”   
“Well, you are all most welcome.” said Dr Wright, addressing the rest of the group.   
“And who is this bright, _promising_ -looking group of young men and women?” asked Evelyn as her eyes scanned the pathology team. She immediately realised that Molly was absent.  
“They are our various specialists, forensic assistants, all part of our pathology department.” answered Dr Wright, clearly very proud of his department.    
“Wonderful.” praised Evelyn in her silkiest voice. “Perhaps one of your bright stars could show us what your work involves?” said Evelyn.  
“Of course. Let’s see, George, why don’t you take the lead? Show them the new equipment and our current samples being processed. That’s quite something.” said Dr Wright.   
“Splendid. Thank you so much, Dr Wright.”  
  
As George and another colleague started the tour, Evelyn lingered behind the group and went up to Dr Wright who had returned to his desk.  
  
“Hello Dr Wright.” she said, sitting herself down across from him.  
“What else can I do for you, Ms Lancaster?”   
“Oh, I just thought we could have a little chat.”  
“Certainly. What about?” he asked.   
“Tell me about your team, Dr Wright. They all look so clever. It’s no wonder we’ve got ourselves a bit of a reputation, haven’t we?”   
“We certainly have made a name for ourselves, yes.” Dr Wright said, beaming.  
“So,” Evelyn leaned towards the desk, “Tell me about these young ones then.”  
  
Dr Wright listed everyone on his department, their academic backgrounds, portfolios, everything. When it came to Molly, Evelyn exclaimed.  
  
“Oh! Molly Hooper, you mean?” she asked, feigning excitement.  
“Yes, that’s right. Do you know her?” asked Dr Wright.  
“Well, I saw her briefly at the gala…”  
“Of course, of course…”  
“I don’t see her today, though. Where is she?” asked Evelyn.  
“I gave her time off till Friday. Poor girl had her hand cut up quite seriously.”  
“Oh, the poor thing.” Evelyn murmured, remembering the incident.  
“She could certainly use the break. She works so hard.”  
“She _does_ look such a bright, young thing.” Evelyn remarked with admiration.  
“She definitely is. One of our best.” said Dr Wright, nodding his head.  
“Wonderful.” Evelyn said, lying through her teeth.  
  
Out of the corner of her eye, Evelyn could see the lab tour was going to take some time, which was exactly what she had hoped for.   
  
“Now, Dr Wright if you please, I’d like you to tell me _all_ about her.” said Evelyn, her perfectly lined eyes glowing menacingly. 

* * *

When Molly reached her flat, she placed her shopping back down and flopped down on the sofa. She thought back on her afternoon with Sherlock, their time at the tea shop and his apology. Shaking her head, she laughed quietly to herself.   
  
“Oh, you silly girl.” she whispered to herself, “He probably doesn’t even know what he was apologising for. I bet John just made him do it.”   
  
His face swam back into her memory as she tried to read _his_ expressions. She tried to recall what he looked like when he was apologising. No, he might have been sincere, but if it meant nothing to him, what weight did the apology have? Molly shut her eyes and rubbed her temples. There was no point thinking about this. Yes, she was going to put it out of her mind, the whole thing, everything. She was probably never going to forgive, but she could forget. Molly decided she was going to forget the way he had cut her, how it meant nothing to him that he had hurt her and how he had never seen the need to apologise. Molly meant nothing to him and therefore, he was now going to mean nothing to her.   
  
“I love you, Sherlock,” she confessed to herself,  “but I mustn’t.”   
  
With her new found resolution, Molly relaxed a little and realised how tired she was from her emotionally charged day. Before she knew it, Molly drifted off to sleep on her couch, curled up underneath her cardigan. Her mind had emptied of Sherlock, but as for her heart, it would probably take a little while more. 

* * *

“Thank you so much, Dr Wright.” Evelyn said, satisfied with everything he had told her.  
“You’re most welcome, Ms Lancaster. It’s nice to see you take interest in our staff.”  
“Oh, of course. She sounds absolutely brilliant. St. Bart’s is lucky to have her.”  
“We certainly are, Ms Lancaster.” Dr Wright remarked gratefully.  
“Such a lovely character too. She sounds like the sweetest thing.”   
“No complaints.” Dr Wright said, “A most excellent colleague.”  
“It’s been wonderful hearing about her, Dr Wright.”   
  
The tour of the lab came to a close and Dr Wright took this opportunity to answer any questions the investors might have had. Evelyn excused herself and stepped outside the lab. Taking her mobile phone, Evelyn began to search for a contact and started to type out a long message.   
  
“Time to show our appreciation, Molly Hooper.” she whispered.


	7. Chapter 7

When Molly stirred awake from her accidental nap on the sofa, it was just past dinnertime.   
  
“God…it’s 8pm?” she murmured sleepily, checking her watch.  
  
After a big stretch, Molly slowly peeled herself off the sofa, now warm and cosy from her having laid there all afternoon. She quickly popped into her kitchen and whipped up a quick salad for dinner from what few vegetables she had left in her fridge. Just as she was settling down to dinner, she heard rapid little knocks at her door and her name being called out.   
  
“Molly Hooper? Miss Molly Hooper? Hello?” came the voice. It sounded like a young male.  
“Um…coming, coming…” she replied, a little stunned. Molly hurriedly made her way to the door but opened it warily by just a tiny gap.  
  
“Yes?” she asked the young man at the door. He had on a dark blue cap with his company logo on it and was neatly dressed in a white polo t-shirt, a brown sweater with the same logo and dark jeans.   
“I’ve got an express delivery for a Miss Molly Hooper?” he said politely.   
“ _Express_ delivery?” she asked, puzzled.  
“Yes, express. Same-day delivery. Ordered today, dispatched today.”  
“I see. And who is it from?”  
“You’ll have to read the card, miss. I’m just the delivery boy.”  
“Right…do I have to sign for…”  
“Yes, if you could just sign here…” he said, slipping a piece of paper to her through the little gap.  
  
Signing it swiftly, Molly opened the door a little wider as the young man handed her a lovely basket adorned with flowers and colourful packets of…something. A small envelope was nestled nicely in between the lovely floral arrangement.    
  
“Have a good evening, miss.” said the nice lad before turning to leave.  
“Thanks…” Molly replied quietly, shutting her door.   
  
The basket was definitely a sight to behold. It had a multitude of flowers that ran from light coral pinks to deep indigo. In the centre of the basket lay a nicely wrapped bundle of what looked like colourful little sachets. Molly immediately recognised it as tea, and not just any tea. It was from her favourite tea place, the place that sold artisan teas and that was also a florist’s.   
  
“Wow…” she whispered, pulling the sachets out, “It’s got _every_ flavour…”  
  
She could not help but feel a little bit excited. She opened the bag and spilled the contents out on her dining table and her eyes widened as she took in the array of flavours before her.   
  
“It’s the _whole_ collection…” she murmured to herself. Molly was this close to doing a little dance of joy. This was proving a wonderful little surprise from all the recent doldrums she was going through. Certainly, this was something Molly had always wanted. Her obsession with the lovely teas at the shop was probably going to reach a new high now that the entire collection had been given to her.   
  
Suddenly, it occurred to her that she had just been at the tea place with Sherlock. Not only that, he had been trying to apologise. She sat down calmly and tried to quiet the foolish, growing notion in her heart that possibly, just possibly, he was still trying to apologise. After all, she had not quite accepted his apology. In all fairness, there had been no real apology to accept. There was no way Sherlock could have been sincere about something as trivial as an apology. This was where Molly knew her heart was playing a cruel trick on her. There was no way he would apologise so meaningfully, if he was to attempt a second apology at all. Yet, Molly wanted to believe this tiny, shred of possibility.   
  
“There was a card…” she muttered to herself, frantically fumbling for the basket as her fingers found the envelope in the centre.   
  
Molly ripped the envelope a little too quickly, just short of getting a paper cut. She pulled out a pretty, store-bought card that had a painting of a little bouquet of flowers on the front. Opening the card, she saw three rows of neat handwriting in black ink. Molly realised she had never really seen Sherlock’s writing. He would scribble into a notepad on occasion or make little notes when he was at the microscope, but she had never noticed his writing.   
  
The card had a simple message. It read:  
  
_Dear Molly,  
Get well soon.   
Hope you enjoy the tea._  
  
Of course he would not sign it. He would not even leave his initials. Molly laughed sadly and slipped the card back into the envelope.   
  
“Well…” she said, leaning resigned against her chair, “It’s still not an apology. But at least I’ve got tea.”  
  
Smiling to herself, she rummaged through the sachets, found a flavour she wanted and went off to make herself a well-deserved pot of tea to unwind with after dinner.

* * *

After Sherlock’s afternoon with Molly, he had returned home, thoughtful but resentful. He resented the tiny, nagging feeling that tugged at, god forbid, his heart. By the time he stepped through the doors of 221B, he had resolved not to think about Molly anymore. He had apologised, as John had foolishly demanded, and it was now out of the way. There were far more important and useful things that he could occupy himself with.  
  
However, he found the subsequent days a little tougher than usual. No deserving cases had presented themselves. Despite tapping into Lestrade’s work phone and hacking into his emails, he still found nothing interesting to work on. Sherlock had no choice but to resort to experiments to cure his boredom, much to John’s dismay. There were afternoons where John would find holes in the table from hydrochloric acid and ammonia soaked fabric dangling from the ceiling. Needless to say, John found himself spending a lot more time outside the flat, or finding refuge in Mrs Hudson’s kitchen.   
  
On Friday afternoon, John had come back from an errand and reluctantly headed into the kitchen, just to keep tabs on Sherlock. As usual, something that was _not_ food was boiling away on the stove and John had learnt never to look inside the toaster, especially when black smoke seemed to rise from it.   
  
“Acids are a funny thing. And such an easy thing to create.” Sherlock began. “Ah, the power of corrosion!” With a pair of tweezers, he lifted up what was left of the cutlery as John took in the sight of a melted fork.   
  
Sighing, John sat himself in his usual armchair, away from Sherlock’s makeshift laboratory.  
  
“I see we’re still at science class,” John began.  
“Mmm…” Sherlock was concentrating as he carefully dispensed two drops of some unknown liquid onto another poor fork, resulting in a hissing sound. John rolled his eyes as Sherlock chuckled delightedly to himself.  
“Have there really been no cases?” asked John.  
“None at all.”   
“You mean none that tickled your fancy?”  
“Just a few robberies…there was that drowning in the lake…all too obvious.”   
“Obvious… right.” John replied with a smirk. “When do you think we can get the kitchen back to being, you know, a proper kitchen?”  
“Oh, who knows, who knows…” murmured the detective, who lifted a beaker to the light, inspecting its contents.  
“God, this is hopeless…” John whispered, rubbing his forehead.  
“It _is_ hopeless….” Sherlock continued, “ _This_ formula just isn’t working…”  
“Well, I’m just glad…” John said, preparing to leave, “That there are no corpses or limbs about the flat. I guess that’s always something to be grateful for, when I can be grateful for it.”  
  
“Oh,” said Sherlock, looking up with a start.  
“What?”  
“What day is today, John?”  
“Uh, it’s a Friday.”  
“Friday.” Sherlock whispered before exclaiming again, “Friday!”  
  
With a loud clatter, Sherlock abandoned his science experiment and marched into his room to get his coat and scarf.   
  
“Where are you going?” asked John.  
“To St. Bart’s.”   
“Should I ask why?”  
“It’s Friday.”  
“And…what’s that got to do with Bart’s?”  
“Molly.”  
“Molly?” John’s eyebrows lifted in surprise.  
“Yes,” said the detective with a sly smile, “She’s back from medical leave and I need to look at some eyeballs.”

* * *

The lab was quiet when Sherlock barged in, swinging the doors open again like he had before. Dr Wright looked up at Sherlock, startled.   
  
“Can I help you, Mr Holmes?”  
“Yes, I’m here to see Molly.”  
“Molly…” Dr Wright looked around and continued, surprised,“…is not in today.”  
“What do you mean she’s not in?” asked Sherlock.   
“Well, she’s…not. I know she’s supposed to be back today,” answered Dr Wright. “And usually she’d leave a note if she can’t make it in.”  
“You mean to say,” Sherlock stared hard at Dr Wright, “that you don’t know why she’s not here?”  
“Maybe she needed more rest, Mr Holmes,” said Dr Wright. “So I’m not too bothered if she takes one extra day off. Like I said, that girl does work too hard.”  
“But – never mind,” Sherlock muttered.   
“Look, I’m sure she'll phone in sooner or later.” Dr Wright remarked, as though placating Sherlock. “And if she does, I’ll be sure to call you.”   
  
Sherlock frowned and was displeased. This was not like he had planned. Molly was supposed to be in and she would be there and he would ask her about the case she was writing up and ask to see those eyeballs. Now, none of this could happen because Molly was absent. In fact, and this is where Sherlock felt his mind race, Molly was _missing_.   
   
“Something’s not right…” he muttered to himself.   
“Mr Holmes?”   
“Good day, Dr Wright,” said Sherlock as he turned swiftly on his heels and bolted out of the lab. 

* * *

When he reached Molly’s flat, Sherlock raced up the stairs that led to her door. He knocked on it rapidly and craned his neck to hear her response. There was none.   
  
“Molly!” he bellowed through the door.   
  
In his blood, the brilliant detective was certain something was terribly wrong. He knocked rapidly again, rapping his knuckles hard against the wood.   
  
“Molly.” his voice weakened just slightly. Why was there no response?  
  
He needed to get into the flat, fast. Could he do it without breaking in? Sherlock surveyed the door, its frame and the immediate area surround him. His bright, inquisitive eyes darted from element to element, from the doorknob, to the ratty doormat to the dying cactus plant by the door. When he looked up, he noticed a wind chime. No wind would ever come through this narrow stairway for the wind chime to make even the slightest whistle. Yet, it hung proudly by the doorframe. Sherlock stared at the odd little wind chime with a body of frosted blown glass and tiny brass chimes hanging off it. A peculiar shadow in the hollow, frosted bubble caught Sherlock’s eye. He knew what it was immediately and smirked.   
  
“She really is clever,” he whispered to himself.   
  
Reaching into the body of the chime, Sherlock pulled out what was clearly Molly’s spare key and proceeded to unlock her door. When he stepped in, the first thing that struck him was how awfully cold it felt. The flat was dead quiet. When he stepped in, he reached to touch the first radiator he could see, the one in the sitting room. The metal was a steely cold. It had not been on for some time. Four days, to be exact.   
  
Her bedroom door was ajar but the lights were off. It did not seem like she was inside. When he walked across to the kitchen, the dining table adorned with scattered tea sachets greeted him. Picking one of the sachets up, Sherlock read the label, then scoffed. Her deep fascination with tea was something he would never comprehend. He saw that one sachet had been opened, its packet left on the dining table.   
  
“That’s a bit much, isn’t it, Molly? Preserving the package too?” he muttered to himself as he dropped the sachet he was holding back into its basket.   
  
When he walked into the kitchen, Sherlock noticed there were two more sachets of tea that had been opened with their empty packets left on the counter. He studied the kitchen and found it untouched for sometime too. All the cutlery was bone dry and the tiniest traces of dust had begun to settle on some of the cupboards’ doorknobs. From their one-sided conversations at the lab, Sherlock knew Molly enjoyed cooking and used her kitchen as often as she could find time to. The state of the kitchen did not align with the stories she told him.   
  
All of a sudden, Sherlock heard a crash and a low thud come from outside. Rushing out of the kitchen, he glanced around frantically but saw no one. The sitting room was as it was, cold and unoccupied. His eyes carefully scanned the floor for what might have dropped or fallen when his gaze finally led him to the doorway to Molly’s room. When he saw what lay before him, the unshakeable Sherlock Holmes with nerves of steel felt himself tremble in his boots and his chest cave in with panic.   
  
Peeking out of the doorway was a single, pale hand and the wispy ends of an auburn ponytail. Even without a scalpel in it, Sherlock recognised that hand. He knelt by the doorway and saw, to his horror, Molly collapsed and virtually unconscious on the floor. The room was dark and had the horrible stench of sick. Sherlock stepped carefully over Molly to open the curtains. As sunlight filled the room, Sherlock’s eyes filled with disbelief as he saw the limp figure of Molly Hooper sprawled lifeless before him. Her pale hands stretched in front of her, as though she had been crawling or crying for help. The source of the crash had been Molly’s mug and a few other things that she had swept off her side table in her attempt to get up. Puddles of dried sick spotted the room and her bed.   
  
“Molly…Molly!” Sherlock exclaimed, scooping her up from the ground and propping her against him as he knelt beside her.   
  
Her eyes could barely open and her skin looked grey and ill. All of her weight rested itself on Sherlock as Molly had not an ounce of strength left in her weak, sick body. She lay against him, as though she were dead.   
  
“Molly? Say something!” Sherlock was almost shouting as he touched his hand to her cold cheek. He then quickly pressed his fingers to her neck to feel for a pulse. Sherlock had never been more relieved to find one, however weak a pulse it was. She was alive, but very ill. He wanted very much to find out what had caused this. There were so many possible clues and the theories all rushed together in his head, but Sherlock knew Molly’s condition was far too grievous to stall for any sort of deduction. _  
  
Is this what caring feels like? Blind panic?_ thought Sherlock to himself. _Definitely a disadvantage_.  
  
With Molly still on his lap, Sherlock reached for his mobile phone and called John.   
  
“Hello?”  
“John, I need you to get to Molly’s flat now.”  
“Molly’s flat? I thought you were at Bart’s?”  
“No time for questions, John. Get. Here. _Now_.”   
  
At that moment, Sherlock felt Molly twitch in his arms as she jerked forward and threw up violently again.   
  
“Did someone just _vomit_?” asked John incredulously on the phone.  
“Yes. That was Molly. That’s why you need to _hurry_.”  
“Molly? Wha-…Okay, Sherlock, get her to a hospital and I will meet you there.”  
“Fine.”  
  
Sherlock shoved his phone back into his pocket and gently lay Molly back on the floor. There was not a sound from her for she could barely manage a whimper. Apart from the weak pulse and the sudden jerk, she could have passed for a corpse. Sherlock quickly headed to her bathroom and found the first towel he could find, quickly wiping her face and hands clean as best as he could. Then, as fast as he could, Sherlock scooped Molly up and raced out of her flat to get them a cab to Bart’s.  
  
In the cab, Sherlock stared down at Molly and studied her symptoms. She lay horizontally along the seat, with her head propped up on Sherlock’s lap. What had made the pathologist so sick? Apart from the obvious paleness, the cold touch of her skin and the copious amounts of vomiting, Molly had also lost a bit of weight. It was clear she had not eaten since she got sick from whatever it was that ailed her. Then, a thought struck Sherlock. The only trace of activity had been the opened tea sachets and the fact that her mug was by her bedside. He shut his eyes to recall the spilt mug in her room and his crystal clear memory recalled the little paper tab found at the ends tea bags, clinging to the side of the mug.   
  
_It was the tea, you foolish girl,_ he thought angrily.   
  
He regretted not taking a sample of the tea with him to examine further, but he could always pop around later to get it. Then, Sherlock had a better idea.  
  
“Yes, Sherlock, I am just getting my coat. I am leaving the flat in about three seconds…”  
“No, John, listen. I need you to go to Molly’s flat.”  
“I told you, take her to Bart’s!”  
“We’re already en route.” Sherlock replied. “But I need you to go to her flat.”  
“There’d better be a good reason for this, Sherlock.”  
“Yes, there is.” Sherlock said, his voice steady.  “Now I need you to go into her flat…I didn’t have time to lock it, and when you walk in you should see packets of tea on the dining table. I need you to get me some of those tea bags and bring them to me.”   
  
John, for Molly’s sake, agreed to this strange request and made the detour. For now, Sherlock’s priority was to get Molly to hospital. The thought of not having his pathologist around was unacceptable to Sherlock. As far as he was concerned, Molly was indispensable. And whatever, or whoever it was, that tried to dispense of her, Sherlock was going to ensure never attempted it again.

* * *

“I got here as soon as I could.” John said, panting slightly. “How is she?”  
“Stable. Sleeping.”  
  
Sherlock was standing silently by the foot of Molly’s bed and the only sounds filling the room were the slow beeps and clicks of the hospital equipment that surrounded her.   
  
“Did you get what I asked for?”  
“Yes…yes, here it is...” said John, reaching into his pocket.  
  
He handed the colourful packets of tea and placed them in Sherlock’s outstretched hand.   
  
“What do you think happened?” asked John, looking up at his towering friend who had his eyes fixed on Molly’s sleeping figure.   
“Molly’s been poisoned.”   
“What?”  
“She was virtually unconscious when I found her, John. Massively dehydrated after all that vomiting. Pale as a corpse with a pulse so weak you could run a marathon between the beats.”   
“Did you mean food poisoning?”  
“No, John,” Sherlock turned his head slowly to face John, “Molly’s been poisoned.”  
“How can you tell?”  
“Her body was limp but her fingers and toes were all clenched. Even her calf muscles were stiff, almost frozen. Signs of a seizure.”  
“A seizure?”  
“Yes, several, in fact. And seizures are no ordinary symptom for a little stomach malaise. Neither is the level of unconsciousness in which I had found her.”  
“Right.” said John, crossing his arms. He walked over to Molly’s bedside and sighed.   
  
“So, how many already?” asked John, turning back to look at Sherlock.   
“Three ideas, John. Three.” answered Sherlock, his fingers clenching slightly around the packets of tea he held.   
  
Sherlock contemplated moving a bit closer to Molly, just to look at her once more but hesitated. There was something grave about this whole situation and this was no time to get sentimental. Sherlock had a sinking feeling that there was something far more deadly ahead, than the possibly poisonous culprits he had grasped in his hand. He wanted to speak to her, to ask her something, anything.   
  
But first, Sherlock needed to go to the lab. 

* * *

It was nearing the end of a Friday workday when there came a quiet knock on Dr Wright’s office door. After spending his morning in the lab, he had retreated to his office to work on some hospital administrative matters. Before he could say, _come in_ , the door creaked open and the perfect, porcelain face of Evelyn Lancaster peeked coyly in.   
  
“I’m sorry, Dr Wright, I wasn’t interrupting anything, I hope?”   
“No, no, not in the least. Please, have a seat.”  
“Thank you,” said Evelyn as she shut the door quietly behind her and glided to her seat.   
“How has your team been this week, doctor?”  
“We’ve been doing fine Ms Lancaster, just a little busy but we’re all right.”  
“Oh? Busy with what?”  
“Well, the same old, but you know, since Molly’s been away this week we’ve definitely been a little shorthanded.”   
“I see…” Evelyn bit her lip to avoid the little smile that tried to creep out. “But I mean, it’s Friday today, isn’t it? You told me she’d be back today and the workloads would all be back to normal.”  
“Well, she didn’t show up today. And I do trust Molly, so I thought maybe she needed an extra day of rest….”  
“Good, good, that’s good…I mean,” Evelyn caught herself just in time, “good of you to, you know, trust her.” Evelyn replied carefully.  
“Our Molly’s very responsible…”  
“Well,” said Evelyn, rising from her seat, “I guess you’ll hear from her eventually. I’m sure she’s…fine. Just fine.”  
“Well that’s the thing, Ms Lancaster, she isn’t fine. Just got word from one of the nurses here that she’s been warded.”   
“Excuse me?” Evelyn asked, blinking hard.  
“Yes, I was told she was more sick than we’d ever imagined. No wonder she couldn’t call.”  
“She’s alive?” Evelyn whispered carelessly.  
“What do you mean, she’s alive?” asked Dr Wright, “Of course, she is. She’s just been taken ill.”  
  
Evelyn was livid at the news, but managed to keep her cool.  
  
“That’s…terrible news, doctor.” Evelyn frowned in perfectly false concern.  
“I know. I might pop around to see how she is later. Once I get these logs done.”  
“Yes, yes, I might do that too…”   
“That’s very kind of you, Ms Lancaster. It’s not often that board members bother to care about the staff working on the ground.”  
“I do my best,” said with Evelyn with a smile.   
  
When she left the office, Evelyn stomped down the corridor so hard her high heels were dangerously close to snapping.   
  
“I guess another _Get Well_ card is in order then, for _our_ Molly…” she muttered between gritted teeth.

* * *

Sherlock had spent all afternoon at the lab. The contents of the various tea bags had been spilled out into little Petri dishes and test-tubes. He knew what sort of drug he was looking for, he just did not know what it was specifically and how it got there. Based on Molly’s sluggishness and corpse-like state of consciousness, he knew it was some sort of intoxicant, but what sort? There were actual tea leaves in the tea bag, which meant the intoxicant was strong enough, or at least of a high enough concentration, to counter any caffeine the actual tea might have had.   
  
“Any luck then?” asked John, as he stepped into the lab.   
  
With his eyes glued to the row of petri dishes before him, Sherlock’s face broke into a wry smile.   
  
“Luck, no. Brains, yes.” he answered.   
“Right, so…what is it? What’s made Molly so sick?”  
“Have you heard of grievous bodily harm, John?” Sherlock asked, turning from the Petri dishes to look at John.   
“Um, what? You mean like a serious injury?”  
“No, John,” Sherlock said, his eyes darkening, “I mean, Grievous. Bodily. Harm.”  
“You’ve lost me.” said John, grabbing himself a stool.   
“Grievous Bodily Harm, more _un_ commonly known as GBH, Gamma-Hydroxybutyric acid.”  
“I know what that is. That’s used in treating sleeping disorders, among other things.”  
“Among other things, is correct. Grievous Bodily Harm is just one of its more charming monikers.”   
“And _how_ did Molly ingest this? How- Who would do something like that?!” asked John, livid.   
“One step at a time, John.” said Sherlock, sitting back down on his own stool.  
  
Having discovered the drug that Molly had overdosed on, Sherlock had immediately sent word out to his network of homeless people. He had asked them to search for anyone who was a GBH dealer and who had recently made a transaction, legally or illegally, anytime after Monday afternoon, the day he had had tea with Molly.   
  
“I’ve sent word already. My search party is on it and we should be getting our first clues any moment now,” said Sherlock, as he began scrolling furiously through his phone. Just then, his phone rang and Sherlock was pleased to see the number that flashed before him. It was the number of Molly’s tea shop.  
  
“Ah, Terence, hello. So glad you could call back. Do you have what I requested?”  
“Right, I’ve just sent you a scan of Monday’s purchase history. Just the teas only, yeah?”  
“Yes, just the teas…No, wait…does your shop do gift baskets, bouquets…you know…”  
“Yes, not often though. We had only two orders on Monday. I can send those to you if you want…”  
“I want those very much, Terence. Thank you.”  
  
When Sherlock got off the phone, he had a satisfied grin on his face.  
  
“Only two orders on Monday…” he repeated to himself.  
“Sherlock?”  
“Two orders…one of which,” he rose suddenly from his seat, “will tell us who gave our pathologist her precious tea basket.”

* * *

New information continued to pour in from all of Sherlock’s sources and he scanned through all of it greedily. Now that he had confirmed the drug at the lab, he decided to see if Molly was awake. There were so many things he needed to ask, to confirm. When he walked into the ward, Sherlock was about to excitedly announce the results of the lab analysis when he saw that her eyes were shut and she was still fast asleep.   
  
In between the beeps of the machines that watched her, Sherlock could hear her gentle breathing as she slept. The fluids she was getting had restored some colour to her face and she certainly looked a lot more comfortable. Sherlock pulled up one of the chairs and sat down right beside her.   
  
“How could you have continued with the tea?” he asked her quietly. “Wouldn't you have felt suspicious from the first one?”  
  
As he watched her unmoving figure, Sherlock had an unexpected memory return to him. He recalled the night he had cut her hand and run off into a cab with her. And he was struck, again, by how calm he had felt beside her, after all the strain that Evelyn had presented. His eyes now travelled from her pale eyelids, to the tip of her nose, to the slightly parted mouth, finally resting on her smooth cheekbone. His eyes had led him there because his memory had. There was no mistaking how _good_ it felt when her hand had touched his own face, that one brush of skin against his cheekbones. How did something so soft, manage to completely overthrow his aversion to unnecessary human contact?   
  
_Well, you are indispensable_. _So, perhaps yours is necessary_ , he rationalised in his head.   
  
“Who’s done this to you, Molly?” Sherlock asked, his jaw tight from anger. In spite of his anger, he found his hand automatically reaching for her cheekbone, only to hover above it, just as hers had.   
  
Before he could decide whether to touch her or not, Sherlock’s mind picked up a strange new sound that oscillated between the beeps and Molly’s breathing. It sounded like a clicking, no, tapping noise. It was faint, distant at first, but then it grew clearer, sharper.   
  
By the time Sherlock deduced what the sound was, the door had swung open and for the first time, Sherlock wished he had deduced wrongly. Standing at the door in her high heels and with eyes that glowered, was Evelyn Lancaster. 


	8. Chapter 8

Like an ominous shadow that shrouded the door, Evelyn stood and stared at Sherlock who sat by his pathologist. Her blood was already boiling, but the sight that greeted her sent her completely over the edge. Sherlock rose calmly from his seat, concealing his disgust for having run into Evelyn again.   
  
“I wonder why you’re here, Ms Lancaster,” said Sherlock, “But then again, I’m not the sort who _wonders_.”   
“I want to know why _you’re_ here.” she asked, her voice tight.   
“This is my pathologist.” Sherlock remarked softly but fiercely. A sudden rush of protectiveness over Molly flooded him. He stepped toward Evelyn and returned her wide-eyed glower with one of his own.   
  
“So, what’s wrong with her then?” asked Evelyn coldly. Her eyes shifted uneasily. Seeing her expression, Sherlock had to fight very hard from scoffing out loud.   
“You know,” he began, looking down at his phone as more incoming information came beeping in, “I think you know perfectly well what’s wrong with her.”  
“You weren’t supposed to figure it out.” Evelyn replied.  
“Not much faith, coming from a _fervent admirer_ ,” he retorted.  
“You weren’t supposed to have had a chance to find out,” Evelyn blurted out in her rage, “This was all…supposed to have happened quietly and you would _never_ have found out until it was done.”  
“I take that as a confession then,” said Sherlock, locking his phone.  
“I am not confessing to anything.”   
“Well, you didn’t have to really. I’ve got the name of your dealer, the poor soul you summoned to be your delivery boy,” Sherlock had unlocked his phone again and read through all the pieces of evidence that his network had fed him. “I’ve got receipts that trace back to you. Well, not directly, I’ll give you credit for hiding your trail well. But if you really were such a follower, you’d have known better than to use such sad little ploys around someone like me.”  
  
Evelyn clenched her jaw and looked angrily at everything but Sherlock. His gaze remained on her, harsh and unfazed.   
  
“To think you wasted my time on _child’s play_ ,” he whispered, his voice dripping with resentment.  
“You were not supposed to have been involved…”  
“When you meddle with my things, my _people_ ,” Sherlock interrupted, “I am more involved than you will ever imagine. Your…petty meddling has rendered me unable to carry on with the work that matters. Your sick, selfish little tantrum has handicapped my experiments, depleted me of important time and resources…”  
“She’s just a pathologist, surely your work can carry on…”  
“Ms Lancaster,” Sherlock interrupted again with a wry smile, “You neglect to notice the emphasis when I say that she is _my_ pathologist.”  
“Then you are _my_ detective…”  
“I belong to no one.” Sherlock answered, almost growling.  
  
The growing antagonism in the air was suddenly snapped broken when Dr Wright appeared at the entrance to Molly’s room, knocking gently against the doorframe.  
  
“Sorry to just barge in, I’m here to see Molly. Is she all right?” he asked, clearly oblivious to the storm that raged silently in front of him.   
  
“Dr Wright…hello.” came Molly’s soft voice.  
  
“You’re awake.” Sherlock exclaimed, surprised. He automatically rushed to her bedside and knelt down next to her, taking her wrists into his hand.   
  
“Are you all right?” he asked softly.   
  
Molly was stunned that Sherlock had rushed to her and reached for her like that.   
  
“Yes. I feel, tired, but…fine,” she whispered back to Sherlock with a gentle smile. Looking up, she addressed her supervisor and her unexpected visitor.  
  
“Dr Wright, Ms Lancaster, thank you for coming. I…don’t really know what’s happened, but…thank you for coming to see me.”  
  
In the presence of both Dr Wright and Molly who was now awake, Evelyn had to put on her best theatrics and the warmest, most sympathetic expression of care and concern now radiated from her face.   
  
“Molly, may I call you that? It’s so good to see you’re awake, Molly. You slept for so long. We were so worried.” said Evelyn.  
  
At Evelyn’s words, Sherlock scoffed quietly to himself as he tightened his grip around Molly’s wrists. Molly turned to him, puzzled, but shushed him for he looked like he was about to say something rude.   
  
“Thank you, Ms Lancaster. I’m glad to be awake too.”   
“What happened to you, Molly?” asked Dr Wright, “First the cuts, now this!”  
“I…I don’t…know, really…”   
“Well, don’t you worry, my dear,” said Evelyn interrupting as she walked over to Molly and took her hands from Sherlock, “You’re in one of the best hospitals there is and we’ll make sure we give you all the treatment that you need. We can’t be losing one of our best pathologists, can we?”  
“That’s…very kind of you, Ms Lancaster,” Molly replied quietly, a little uncomfortable from the way Evelyn was now so lovingly holding her hands.   
“So rest well and I’ll see to it that you recover in no time.” Evelyn said, gently patting Molly’s hand.  
“You take all the time you need, Molly.” said Dr Wright kindly, “I don’t want you to be poorly anymore.”  
“Thank you, Dr Wright.”  
  
With a smile and a wave, Dr Wright left the room. Evelyn immediately released Molly’s hands and they fell with a soft thud on her blanket. Evelyn straightened herself and adjusted her blouse as she looked down at the sight of Sherlock so near to Molly with his eyes so fiercely protective. It was certainly a picture that displeased her and it certainly was not the one she had in mind from the beginning.   
  
“Who are you, Molly Hooper?” Evelyn asked, almost murderously, as she looked down condescendingly at Molly   
“I…don’t know…what you mean, Ms Lancaster…”  
“Who are you to Sherlock?!” asked Evelyn, snapping, pressing her hands into Molly’s bed as she bent over to glare at Molly in the face. It was as though she had forgotten Sherlock’s presence in the room.   
  
Sherlock rose suddenly from his crouched position beside Molly and, to Evelyn’s surprise, reached for her arms that barricaded Molly and firmly removed them from Molly’s side. He gripped Evelyn’s forearms mercilessly and angrily, just short of crushing her bones. There was none of that tenderness that he had when he held Molly’s. He could have snapped Evelyn’s arms into pieces if he wanted.   
  
“You need to stop repeating yourself, Ms Lancaster,” Sherlock said through gritted teeth. “I’ve already told you, she is _my_ pathologist.”  
“Fine,” said Evelyn, “She may be your pathologist, but it’s just a pathologist, nonetheless.”  
  
Sherlock chuckled softly to himself, not once loosening the grip on Evelyn.   
  
“I know what you think, Ms Lancaster, and I know it maddens you. But _you_ madden _me_ with your childish meddling. Perhaps you should stop thinking about such useless things for once and _grow up_.”  
“You think I’m being childish?” Evelyn said, with a sarcastic little laugh.  
“You don’t have to _be_ , Ms Lancaster, it’s evident you already are.”  
“Sherlock, my dear, dear Sherlock,” she said, with a dangerously confident smile, “If you think all I can manage is child’s play, then you are severely wrong.”  
“I am never wrong, Ms Lancaster.”  
“Such confidence,” Evelyn said in her silkiest voice as she wrenched one hand free from Sherlock.   
  
With her free hand, she reached for his face and stroked it gently, feeling the contours of his cheekbones on her fingers.   
  
“Such beautiful confidence,” she continued, “What pleasure it would be to break it, to _conquer_ it.”  
“Be. My. Guest.” Sherlock answered icily. Every skin cell on his face reeled from her touch.   
“I look forward to seeing you again soon then, Sherlock.” Evelyn said, freeing herself completely from him.   
“I can’t say I echo the sentiment.” answered the detective.   
“I _will_ get what I want, Sherlock.” Evelyn said, soft and menacingly.  
“And I will do everything in my power to prevent it.” Sherlock answered with matching ferocity.  
“Then it’s your power against mine, Sherlock.” Evelyn answered with a dangerous smile as she slowly made her way to the door. “I look forward to playing, Sherlock.”  
  
Before she turned to leave, Evelyn gave one last cold stare to Molly, which slowly broke into dazzling but cruel smile.   
  
“Lovely seeing you again, Molly. I _do_ hope you get well soon.”  
  
The same tapping of her high heels that announced her arrival now faded into the distance as Evelyn sauntered out of the hospital room. Molly had remained wide-eyed and silent during the entire confrontation that took place above her.   
  
“I’m sorry you had to see that.” Sherlock said stonily as he pulled up a chair to sit beside Molly again.   
“No…it-it’s fine. It’s all…very confusing, but…it’s fine.”   
“Are you feeling better? Still nauseated?”  
“Oh, no, thank goodness. I’m just…feeling a little weak. I feel like I haven’t the slightest energy in my limbs.”  
“Of course you haven’t.”  
“What happened to me, Sherlock?” asked Molly.  
“You were poisoned, Molly”   
  
As the memories of finding her near death in her flat came rushing back, Sherlock clenched his jaw in anger and his gaze turned hard. Molly saw the muscles in his jaw twitch from how fiercely he was gritting his teeth and she was no stranger to his hard, aggressive expressions.  
  
‘Sherlock…are you…okay?” she asked. This time, it was she who reached for his hands.  
  
The moment her fingertips made contact with his skin, every sense and reflex in him made him reach swiftly for her hands, wrapping his fingers tightly around them.   
  
“Sherlock…why.....what…are you doing?” Molly asked, looking down at the tense intertwining of their hands.   
“I don’t know,” he answered, with a soft, quiet laugh.   
  
_I don’t know, Molly, I don’t know_ , he answered over and over again in his head, as Sherlock simply could not fight the urge to bring her soft, pale hands to his lips. These were the hands that had offered him so much comfort. And now, he wanted to feel them once again. He wanted to feel them close, to feel how much warmth they carried. Pressing his lips gently but earnestly to her hands, Sherlock kissed the hands of his pathologist.   
  
Molly could distinctly feel her heart leap out of her chest the moment she felt his lips touch the skin of her hand. What surprised Molly the most was how warm and soft his mouth felt against her skin. Not only that, she could feel how much he seemed to want to be near her. It was so completely out of character it baffled her, but the sincerity and earnestness with which he now pressed the back of her hand against the side of his face, quite literally knocked the breath out of her. There was no doubt that at that moment, Sherlock Holmes _wanted_ the touch of Molly Hooper. With his eyes shut, he held her hands close to his face as he relished the full sensation of what he had not forgotten that night in the cab.   
  
“Molly….” he said quietly, his eyes still shut, “I…don’t know what this is.”  
“I think I do,” she said, smiling, “I just don’t believe it.”  
“You shouldn’t.” Sherlock replied, finally opening his eyes to look at her. “Don’t believe this.”  
“Don’t worry,” she answered gently, removing one of her hands from his to touch his face. “I won’t.”  
“But…” Sherlock seemed to be wrestling with this unusual collision of thought and emotion, “How can something _feel_ true, when I know it cannot _be_ true? How is that _I_ can’t bring myself to disbelieve this?”  
“This isn’t…science, Sherlock. Nor is it logic. It’s not…I mean, you can’t conduct experiments with this and come up with proofs. There is no…law that binds this, there is no…equation…but it just… _is_. And that’s how it feels.”  
“I don’t feel, Molly. You know, I don’t.” he muttered to himself. Yet, he could not bear to let go of her hands.  
“You don’t have to.” she answered quietly. “Just try and forget about it. I don’t think you…cope well with, you know… _feelings_.” She laughed softly to herself.  
  
Sherlock removed her hands from his face and held them loosely in his open palms. His eyes studied the cuts on her hand that had healed significantly since he last saw them. There were still traces of scabs and the wounds were still raised but they certainly looked a lot better. With his fingers, he gingerly traced the path of her cuts, as though they were paths that led somewhere.   
  
“Molly.”  
“Yes?”  
“I…am sorry.”  
  
His clear eyes looked up at her gentle ones that gazed at him with a mix of confusion and endearment.   
  
“I have hurt you. Forgive me.”  
  
It was Molly’s turn to study him as she looked right at his eyes. This time, there was no steely glaze or icy veneer that obscured her vision of him. Here was Sherlock, as sincere as his machine heart could allow him, genuinely sorry for what he had done to her.   
  
“And it seems…my very existence continues to bring you harm.”  
“How is that possible?” she said, reaching to touch his face again.   
“Evelyn Lancaster…” he said, with an angry exhale.  
“What about her?”  
“She’s the one that poisoned you, Molly.” Sherlock’s words came out soft but livid.   
“What? But why? Why would she do that?”  
“She thinks I love you, Molly.” Sherlock said with a small, cynical laugh.   
“But you don’t.”  
“No, I don’t.”  
“So you mean to say, _she_ loves you?”  
“I’m no expert on love, Molly, but it’s safe to assume that’s not what Lancaster’s got on her mind.”  
“What does she want with you then?”  
“I think she just wants… _me._ She wants my attention.” Sherlock said, “How juvenile.”  
“Well, Sherlock, I can…mildly understand her intentions.” Molly said with a shy smile, “I just don’t have half the power or…confidence to do what she does.”  
“And I am glad for that, Molly.” Sherlock said, looking up at Molly, “Don’t ever be her.”  
“I should like to have her legs though….” Molly confessed with a sigh.  
“What for? Did you notice something worth studying?” asked Sherlock.  
“No! Not like that, Sherlock, no. I didn’t mean, what we do at the morgue…I don’t want to _examine_ her legs…”  
“Oh?”  
“No, Sherlock,” Molly couldn’t resist a little chuckle, “It’s just…she’s got beautiful legs and I wish mine were…you know, a little bit prettier like hers.”  
“Legs don’t affect your standard of excellence as a pathologist. I don’t have an issue with your legs.”  
“Of course you wouldn’t, Sherlock.” Molly said, with a knowing laugh, “Of course you wouldn’t.”  
Their awkward but oddly endearing little discussion about this whole Evelyn Lancaster business was interrupted by his phone ringing. It was John calling.  
  
“Yes, she’s fine. She’s woken up, actually.”   
  
“I’ve not explained everything to her yet, but she knows she was poisoned.”  
  
“She’s stable but just weak. And might have to be here for a week more at least.”  
  
“No, not just yet. I want to stay with her.”  
  
When the conversation ended, Sherlock returned his phone to his pocket and turned to look at Molly.   
  
“You’re still very pale. You do know that you can’t have any food yet, don’t you? You have to be on this drip for a while longer.” said Sherlock.  
“I see,” Molly sighed, “Well, that’s…not going to be pleasant. The hunger is really starting to get to me now.”  
“We need to clear your system of the poison first. Also, you need the drip because ordinary food is simply not going to make up for all that you’ve lost.”  
“I suppose….” Molly said with another sigh as she sank further back into her pillow.  
  
They remained in silence for a while, the only sounds were the same old beeps and the ticking of the room clock. Glancing up at the time, Molly saw that it was getting late.   
  
“Have _you_ had something to eat then?” she asked Sherlock.  
“No. I had your analysis to do.”  
“What were you analysing?”  
“The…” he found it harder and harder to mention, “…poison.”  
“Well, it’s really late, Sherlock. Is your analysis done?”  
“Yes.”  
“Good. So you can go home now.”  
“No.” he said with a start, “No, anything could happen to you again here. And you’re probably more vulnerable here in a hospital than you would be if you were at home…”  
  
It then occurred to Sherlock that it _was_ terribly dangerous to have Molly in the hospital for so long. She was alone, with restricted mobility and with all these drips and machines hooked up to her, her bloodstream was even freer to access. Sherlock was not risking a second poisoning, and not with Evelyn Lancaster looming about. Now that Evelyn knew Molly survived, and knew where Molly was, this was the most unsafe place to be.   
  
“You have to leave.” Sherlock said, suddenly.  
“Um, I…can’t?” Molly answered.  
“Yes, you can.” he said, getting up on his feet, “In fact, you’re leaving with me right now.”  
“What are you talking about?”  
“I’m taking you home.”  
“But…how can I go home when…you know, you said I need the drip and…and the hospital care.”  
“I can afford the same medical vigilance, possibly better than what this hospital can offer. I am taking you with me, Molly.”  
“No, Sherlock…you can’t just…”  
“Yes I can, but first, I need you to sleep.”  
“Sherlock…what?”  
  
Sherlock quickly exited the room and in a matter of minutes he was back with a little glass vial in his hand.   
  
“Goodnight, Molly,” he said, as he fixed the vial to the drip machine, introducing the chemical into her bloodstream.  
“What have you put in there!” asked Molly, a little frightened.  
“I’m just sending you to sleep Molly, so that I can take you home.”  
“I don’t…I-I….”   
  
The drug worked fast and soon Molly’s speech began to slur as her eyelids fell as heavy curtains would at the end of a play. Sherlock then whipped out his phone and began making calls as he made plans to bring his pathologist to the safety of 221B Baker Street. 


	9. Chapter 9

It was probably about one in the morning when John woke up with a start. He could hear strange clattering noises and a myriad of unrecognisable voices echoing around the living room and along the narrow stairway. He was convinced there were burglars until he heard the familiar deep voice of his flat mate.   
  
“There, by the mantelpiece, just place it there and you should find the socket…Be careful!” said Sherlock fiercely.  
“Where do you want the tubes?” came one gruff voice.  
“I’ve set up the day bed, is the height okay?” asked another.  
“I’ve got her bag, where do you want it?” said a female voice this time.  
“Which plug goes in where then, eh?” a third voice piped in.  
“Just put everything down, I’ll sort it out,” Sherlock answered, nearly bellowing in frustration.  
  
By the time John shuffled lazily out of his room, he saw Sherlock handing out fifty-pound notes to what looked like several of his lackeys in the homeless network.  
  
“Cheers, mate. Good luck with ya girlfriend!” said a bearded man in an olive green hoodie.  
“For the last time, she is _not…_ ”  
“Do you think I could have her scarf? It’s very pretty,” asked the young lady who had been in charge of the bags.  
“No, you may not. Buy your own with the money I gave you.” Sherlock replied, as he proceeded to chase them out of the flat.   
  
As they made their way out, Sherlock looked around the mess of hospital equipment he had just transported and sighed in frustration, exhausted from all the kerfuffle with his lackeys. They were tremendously useful but sometimes, they really wore him out.   
  
“Who’s your girlfriend?” asked John.  
“Nobody.” Sherlock replied sharply, returning his wallet to his pocket.  
“So what’s all this then?” asked John, “Turning the kitchen into a science lab wasn’t enough?”  
“No, not quite…” said Sherlock as he exited the flat again.  
“Where are you going?” John shouted down the stairway.  
“To collect the last important thing,” he replied, “In fact, I could do with a bit of help.”  
  
Sighing and pulling his coat over his robe, John trundled down the stairway to see what Sherlock was up to. When he stood at the door that led to the street, he was faced with a huge ambulance parked in front of him.   
  
“Come on, this way,” he instructed John. Sherlock headed to the back of the ambulance and opened its doors. When John peered in, he saw the sleeping figure of Molly laid out on a stretcher.   
  
“ _What_ is Molly doing in an ambulance, at Baker Street?” John asked, staring hard at Sherlock.   
“The hospital was not safe.” Sherlock replied stoically as he began releasing the clamps that held the stretcher.   
  
Shaking his head, John assisted his friend and helped him get the stretcher onto the ground. They then manoeuvred the stretcher up the narrow stairway and into the warmth of the flat. Once they were inside, John and Sherlock carefully lifted Molly off the stretcher onto the newly installed day bed.    
  
“There,” Sherlock remarked, with a little grin of satisfaction, “Now, to thank the driver.”  
  
He rushed out the flat once more and handed a few notes to the man who had driven them here in the ambulance.   
  
“Cheers, Mr Holmes! Hope the girlfriend gets better!” the driver exclaimed before zooming off.  
“She’s not my…” Sherlock rolled his eyes and headed back inside.   
  
When he stepped back in the living room and saw John busily setting up the equipment, he smirked as he hung his coat.   
  
“I didn’t think it was possible, but I can actually feel your rather sickening victory smiles even when I’ve got my back turned to you,” said John, as he looked up from one of he machines he was plugging in.   
“You can’t hold it against me for being flawlessly accurate that you would get right to work settling our patient in, despite the fact that it was an illegal operation that woke you in the middle of the night.”  
“You’re right….Oh, god _damn_ it, Sherlock, you’ve stolen all this!” John exclaimed as the realisation hit him.  
“You don’t have to worry, John.” Sherlock said, coolly, settling himself into his repositioned armchair, “I’ve cleared the paper work, got it all sorted. As far as the hospital’s concerned, Molly was never warded.”  
“Fine. But the equipment? You can’t just…empty an entire hospital room of its equipment and take it back to your flat, Sherlock!”  
“Yes, I can. And I have.”  
“Good _god_ , Sherlock.”  
“Never you mind about the equipment, I need you to quickly fix her up to her drips again. She isn’t fully stable yet.”  
“Can I ask, again,” said John, as he continued connecting tubes and calibrating machines, “why Molly is here, in our flat?”  
“I told you, the hospital was not safe. If she’s here, we have you, me and Mrs Hudson to at least keep an eye on her.”  
“Why wouldn’t she be safe at Bart’s?” asked John, perplexed.  
“She was poisoned, John.”  
“I know that. Go on…”  
“Evelyn Lancaster,” Sherlock inhaled deeply, “was the one who poisoned her.”  
“No- wait… Are you _serious_?”  
“Yes, it all pointed to her. I even found her dealer. Well, one of them. It would seem that Bart’s illustrious board has a secret drug lord of sorts among its directors.”  
“Hang on a minute. Evelyn Lancaster, a drug ringleader?”  
“I am not certain, but in time I will find out. For now, I just want Lancaster out of the way. I need Molly back on her feet again.” Sherlock said, turning to look at Molly, “And safe.” 

* * *

It was almost noon and sunlight gradually began to sweep through the living room at Baker Street. As the light began to sneak through her eyelids, Molly slowly stirred awake. Although the sedative Sherlock had given her had mostly worn off, her head felt as heavy as lead. When her eyes opened fully and had adjusted to her environment, Molly realised that this was not the environment she was supposed to be in. She recognised the wallpaper, of course, and its signature bullet holes. Had the sedative started to make her hallucinate?  
  
“Ah, Molly.” came Sherlock’s voice from somewhere in the flat.  
“Sh-Sherlock?” she muttered, as she struggled to sit up.  
“It seems you’re improving even more. The IV has really done you well.” Sherlock remarked with a fleeting smile as he approached her.  
“Why…why am I here? I should be…at Bart’s.”  
“I told you, Molly, you are more vulnerable at the hospital. Especially so with Lancaster around.”  
“Okay….but, how…where did you get all the equipment?”  
  
Molly scanned the living room that had now become a makeshift ward. As she did so, her hands reached for her messy ponytail and tried to neaten it. Sherlock found himself instantly distracted by the memory of those hands as the sensation crept back under his own skin. It felt like the first inhale of a freshly lit cigarette, or the first rush of adrenalin back when he used to stick needles into his arm. Blinking away this unexpected craving, Sherlock cleared his throat and scanned the room together with her.   
  
“It’s amazing what you can do with pick-pocketed IDs and a bit of charm,” he said, almost triumphantly.  
“That’s…nice…” Molly answered, a little bewildered by how much equipment he had taken, “I just hope you won’t…you know, get in trouble…for this.”  
“You know me, Molly. I am never in trouble.” he said coolly.   
  
Again, Molly tried to sit up, but realised she could not and fell back dejectedly against her pillow.   
  
“My head feels…like it’s full of cement…and my body feels completely hollow.” she said with a sigh, shutting her eyes.   
“You only need to fast for six more hours, Molly,” Sherlock said, his voice gentle at the sight of Molly’s discomfort.  
“Okay…just…six hours…more.” she uttered softly, covering her eyes with one hand.   
  
Again, the smooth movement of her hand that concealed her face caught Sherlock’s eyes, as though hooking him. The underside of her wrist now faced up, facing him. Her skin looked unbelievably smooth and it was unbearable that he had to be so far from it. Many thoughts rushed through Sherlock’s mind. Many new and unfamiliar thoughts.  
  
“Um…Can I…get you anything?” Sherlock said, frowning at his odd stammer.  
“No…no…it’s fine…” Molly replied, her face still hidden, “Just…wake me when I can eat.”  
“Of course.” Sherlock answered, quickly leaving her and retiring to his room.  
  
Sherlock clicked his door shut and sat down on his bed. With a slow exhale, Sherlock attempted to calm his heart that had begun beating so loudly he felt it throb in his ears. _She’s my pathologist, she helps me with my work, she grants me access to the morgue, her knowledge of chemistry almost surpasses mine, she’s an expert on death and decay..._ Sherlock ran through all the facts he had stored of Molly, as though trying to reinstate how he had perceived her before, before things changed.   
  
“But _what’s_ changed?” he muttered angrily to himself.

* * *

She had taken a deliberately slow and luxurious bath so that she could think. Her confrontation with Sherlock was unexpected. Why had he been in Molly’s room at the hospital yesterday? How did he even find Molly? Evelyn unknowingly clenched her fists. No matter how soothing her bath salts were meant to be, they could not undo the one tense knot that plagued Evelyn Lancaster.  
  
“Who is she to Sherlock Holmes?” she whispered to herself, staring up at her ornate bathroom ceiling.   
  
When she was done, she quickly got dressed and headed for her study. She sat at her desk and opened her laptop to check for emails. She cleared the same old work things and quickly conjured a few sugarcoated emails to the investors who had expressed interest in the hospital. When her work things were settled, she shut the laptop and got up to lock the study door. Evelyn then walked over to a small shelf that held neat stacks of glossy, fashion magazines. She proceeded to remove the top stack of magazines, revealing what looked like a small door at the back of the shelf. Reaching in with her slim hands, she turned and twisted a little knob and the door opened. It was a safe and from it, she retrieved another small laptop and brought it to her desk.   
  
Back at her desk, Evelyn now accessed a different inbox. This time, there were no boring administrative emails or silly hospital circulars. This laptop held orders from clients, supplier updates and price lists. This was where Evelyn’s real interests were. Sherlock’s suspicions were right and for now it seemed he was the only one who had gotten a whiff of Evelyn’s other world. Just as she was looking through some incoming orders, her phone buzzed noisily next to her. When she saw the name that appeared on the screen, her eyes burned in anger. This was a call she had been expecting.  
  
“You _fool_ …” she exclaimed vehemently.  
“I’m sorry, Ms L, I covered up all our tracks the usual way…” said the voice at the other end.  
“I’m not talking about that. He would most certainly have traced the trail back to me anyway. He _is_ Sherlock Holmes after all.”  
“I’m sorry, boss, I did everything I could…”  
“No, you didn’t. Why didn’t you put more of the drug in the tea? She wasn’t supposed to survive, you idiot!"  
“If I’d put any more, it would have made people suspicious, Ms L, it would have tasted funny.”  
“Oh, you fool…” she muttered, rubbing her forehead, “GBH is tasteless. It has no scent either. You’ve been in this business so long and you didn’t even know that?”  
“I just…didn’t want it to go wrong.”  
“Well, it still did. I’m docking half your pay because the girl didn’t die. Now run off and collect our shipments. One is coming in from Paris this afternoon and we need it for the triad in Shanghai.”  
“Yes, Ms L…”  
  
Just short of slamming her phone down, Evelyn propped her head up on the desk, burying her face in her hands.   
  
“Fools, fools, fools I am _surrounded_ by fools…” she grumbled under her breath.   
  
How she longed to be with someone who had _brains_. At the hospital, it was all boring old people who had meeting after meeting, conference after conference. It bored the life out of her. This was how she had gotten into narcotics in the first place. The hospital provided the perfect guise, location and logistics for all her ins and outs with some of the most dangerous people in the world. It was not the drugs that thrilled her. No, she never took any of it. The thrill came from the great kick she got out of deceiving the illustrious circles that she belonged to. It thrilled her most to deceive her own father, an upright, prominent and high-ranking civil servant. He was so proud of his daughter, his shining star. Evelyn was the perfect academic, the perfect socialite and she even had the makings of a great politician, but she was bored stiff. None of these mattered to her and none of these whet her appetite for life.   
  
Not until she heard of Sherlock Holmes, the fearless genius who apprehended the most dangerous criminals, captured the most elusive fugitives. He was the only thing that made her cold, apathetic heart beat so hard it almost ached. Evelyn, however, enjoyed the ache. She enjoyed the life it injected into her. It was the best drug she had ever encountered and she was determined to have it all to herself. It pleased her particularly that all her drug operations within the safety net of St Bart’s had not once roused the suspicion of the Holmes brothers. Mycroft was clearly unaware, at least that was what it looked like to Evelyn. After all, he was always busy talking to her father anyway. Sherlock, despite all his dabbling with various sectors of the underground crime systems, had not once sniffed hers out.   
  
This is why she _had_ to meet him. She wanted to meet him face to face, breathe in his genius and stand before him knowing that she had the deepest and darkest narcotics network in all of Europe at the tip of her pretty, manicured fingers. It was like disguising a fearsome lioness as a soft, docile little doe so as to approach the hunter. Instead of being shot through the heart, the doe would be looked upon gently by the hunter, then allowed to prance away scot-free.   
  
Evelyn was convinced she would always get away scot-free. She was clever enough to do that. Although Sherlock Holmes was Evelyn’s would-be hunter, she was the one who wanted to hunt him. If there was a man she felt worthy enough to stand amongst her, it was Sherlock Holmes. He ignited her. Everything about him set fire to her heart, including his blasé approach to the ordinariness of life and the way it contrasted to his almost manic commitment to his work. Life _was_ boring and Evelyn more than understood. It was her misguided need for kindred that led to her irrepressible lust for the detective. She wanted every inch of him and every moment of his life intertwined with hers. Which is why the little speck that was Molly Hooper, fiercely interrupted her plans. Evelyn was still owed a dance. It was a dance of both mind _and_ body. Evelyn may have started out his admirer, but really, she was hunting for his admiration.   
  
There was much work to be done that day, what with the shipment from Paris. There were also meetings to be had with a triad from Hong Kong as well as some Albanian drug lords. But Evelyn was simply unable to concentrate. Normally her work gave her lots of pleasure and excitement but today, she felt irritable and deprived. The deep dissatisfaction of not finishing her hunt was certainly getting to her. Shutting her laptop abruptly, Evelyn leaned back in her seat, shut her eyes and sighed deeply.  
  
“What can I do to make you _look_ at me, Sherlock?” she murmured to herself, “What can I do?”  
  
Suddenly, her phone buzzed again and she was snapped out of her little moment. When she saw the number that appeared, a frown appeared on her face. This was a call she was hoping not to receive.   
  
“Ms L…” the man’s voice was austere, almost robotic.   
“What is it? What’s happened?” she asked, trying not to panic.   
“She’s not in the ward.” he said.  
“What? Was she moved? Did you check the other wards? Did she get moved to the specialist units?”  
“No, Ms L, I’ve checked everything. The paper work has no record of her being warded at the hospital at all.”  
“What?” she asked incredulously, “How is that possible?”  
“I don’t know Ms L. By the time you sent us the order to watch her, she was gone.”  
“Why didn’t you inform me right away?”   
“We were checking out the other locations, Ms L, to see if she had moved, like you just said.”  
  
Evelyn sighed in frustration and rubbed her temples.   
  
“I see.” she said, composed.   
“We spoke to all the staff, made inquiries in your name but no one had any record of her being warded.”  
“So no one knows where she is?”  
“No one, Ms L. Absolutely no one.”  
“Fine. I’ll take it from here.”  
  
The moment she hung up, Evelyn rose from her seat and walked to her window. She stared out of her study window and gazed out at the city before her.   
  
“You can’t hide her from me, Sherlock.” she whispered to herself. “And you can’t hide either.”  
  
Evelyn then went back to her desk, placed her laptop back in its private location and exited her study. She dialled a contact and brought her phone to her ear as she walked down her corridor back to her room. It always took two rings before he picked up. Everything about Mycroft was like clockwork.     
  
“Mycroft, _hello_.” she said in her sweetest voice. “It’s been so long since we last met for a chat. I think it’s time we had some tea, don’t you?”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was one of my favourite chapters to write, purely because of all the Mycroft. He's so beautiful in this chapter, if I may say so myself. ;)

They had arranged to meet at three o’clock at a tea parlour in one of London’s finest luxury hotels. Evelyn was a regular here and often had her own private room ready for her whenever she had any appointments of her own.   
  
“Evelyn, hello.” Mycroft greeted as he walked into their private tea area.   
“Mycroft,” she getting up from her seat to kiss him politely on both cheeks, “It’s always a pleasure. Please, sit down.”  
“The pleasure is mine,” said Mycroft.  
  
Evelyn signalled the waiter who then brought in a tray with an assortment of petit-fours and a large porcelain teapot of fragrant Earl Grey. She reached for the teapot and gracefully poured a cup for Mycroft and then one for herself.  
  
“So, tell me,” Mycroft said, sipping his tea, “What has earned me an afternoon of tea and cake with you, the ever-busy Ms Lancaster?”   
“How direct you are today, Mycroft.” She said with a bell-like laugh. “No ice-breaking pleasantries? No politically-correct banter?”  
“Only when I have to, Evelyn dear. You’re a busy woman and I am a busy man. So I can see that with you, those are vastly unnecessary.”   
“Perceptive, as always.”  
“You are a keen observer yourself, Evelyn. Always have been. Your father talks highly of you, you know.”  
“I know.” She replied, slowly stirring her tea, “But let’s not talk about my father, for a change.”  
“Yes, of course. What are we here to talk about then?”  
  
Evelyn took a sharp breath and frowned, as though troubled. Mycroft kept his eyes on her, quietly studying her expression. She smoothed her skirt and sat up even straighter.   
  
“I would like to talk to you about Sherlock.”  
“Don’t we all?” Mycroft replied with a smirk.  
“Your brother is…” Evelyn had not quite thought about what to say.  
“Yes?”  
“He’s…taken a pathologist.”  
“What do you mean, _taken_?” asked Mycroft.   
“We have a pathologist, one of our best ones at the hospital, he works with her sometimes…”  
“Oh, you mean, Molly Hooper?” Mycroft interrupted.  
“Why, yes…how did you know?” asked Evelyn, surprised.   
“He only works with the best. And having elected her to be the best, he works exclusively with her, I have been assured.”  
“Ah…I see…” Evelyn replied, containing her displeasure.   
“Please, do continue.”  
“Yes, sorry…” Evelyn cleared her throat and gathered her thoughts, “Molly Hooper had been taken ill, _very_ ill and was being treated at Bart’s. But as of early this morning, it seems she is no longer warded at Bart’s but has been taken away by your brother.”  
“Ah…” Mycroft remarked solemnly. He tapped his fingers thoughtfully against the armrest.   
“Not only has she disappeared, so has the rest of the hospital equipment. I’m afraid your brother has committed an unusual combination of theft and kidnapping.”  
“Unfortunately, that isn’t half as unusual as what he normally gets up to,” said Mycroft with a sigh, “But it certainly is unacceptable.”  
“I cannot have your brother make off with one of my hospital’s best pathologists, no matter how honourable he perceives his intentions to be.”  
“I cannot disagree with that, Evelyn.”  
“And certainly not an entire room of state-of-the-art equipment. I will not have your brother cause a disturbance at my hospital.”  
“I am in full agreement. Hospital personnel and property are not to be tampered with.”  
  
Reaching for his tea, Mycroft slowly sipped it and paused to think. A few moments of quiet passed between the two illustrious figures.   
  
“I have but one question,” said Mycroft.   
“Yes?”  
“How do you know it was Sherlock?”   
“Well, I…” Evelyn realised she had not thought this through and internally chastised herself for it.   
“What reason would my brother have, to take his best pathologist _out_ of their normal workplace? Especially if she were taken ill? Would he not want her to have the best recuperation possible?”  
“Yes, well…” Evelyn’s brows furrowed as she thought hard, “I suppose nobody can know what goes on in your brother’s head.”  
“And yet, you seem to know _undoubtedly_ that it was my brother who somehow whisked Ms Hooper away along with every machine in the room.”   
“I suppose I…”  
“Yes, what _do_ you suppose, Evelyn?” asked Mycroft, sitting forward and looking right at her, “What is _your_ rationale for his behaviour, then?”  
  
Evelyn kept quiet but her mind spun frantically. She knew Mycroft was no fool to pull wool over but she had not expected such sharp questions.   
  
“I am so sorry, Mycroft, perhaps my emotions have gotten the better of me.” Evelyn replied, sighing.   
“What emotions do you mean?”  
“Well, it is always distressing to know my perfectly-run hospital is being upset all because of one renegade genius who does what he pleases…”  
“But how…did…you…know...it…was…him?” Mycroft asked quietly and calculatedly.  
“It’s Molly…” Evelyn blurted.  
“Molly?” asked Mycroft with a frown.  
“Yes…Molly…” Evelyn repeated, surprised she had come to this.   
“Interesting. Go on.”  
“I think…your brother is a little more than obsessed with his pathologist.”  
“My brother? Obsessed with Molly Hooper?” Mycroft was wide-eyed at the suggestion.  
“Yes, I believe so. And I think that’s why he took her. She was, after all, in a vulnerable state…”  
“Evelyn, my brother is infamous for his incredulous behaviour, his outlandish ways to fulfill his noble, crime-fighting purposes, so to speak...”  
“Yes, we are all aware of that,” Evelyn answered quietly.  
“But for him to simply take someone, with no relation whatsoever to a case or a form of research, is an incredulous notion. Even for an incredulous character as my brother.”  
“But you must believe me, Mycroft,”  
“I believe that he would take equipment. I believe that he would take machines. I believe he would badger and upset the entire clockwork of your brilliant hospital. But you will need to convince me of his need to have taken Ms Hooper.”  
  
Evelyn lowered her head and studied her half-drunk tea cup and the untouched plate of petit-fours .  
  
“I told you, Mycroft, he was obsessed with Molly Hooper.”  
“And what is the reason for his obsession with her?”  
“I…oh, this won’t work…” she whispered, covering her face with her hand.  
“What have you really brought me here to tell me, Evelyn?” Mycroft asked, his voice a mix of gentleness and curiosity.  
“Your brother...is in love with Molly Hooper.”

* * *

“Molly…” Sherlock said, quietly tapping her shoulders, “Molly.”  
“Hmm?” Molly’s heavy eyelids slowly lifted.   
“The six hours are up,” he said, with a quick smile, “You can eat now.”  
“Thank God…” said Molly with a grateful sigh.  
  
After he slowly detached all the tubes and needles from her, Molly tried to prop herself up to get ready to eat. However, she simply had no energy left. She shut her eyes and tilted her head back, sighing in frustration. Molly did not like being in such a vulnerable state. She liked being on her feet, working or researching. This prolonged bed-rest did not suit her very well.   
  
“Could you help me sit up, please, Sherlock?” she asked.  
“Of course…” he said, quickly reaching to assist her. With one hand on her back and the other holding her arm, Sherlock carefully eased Molly into sitting position.  
“Thanks,” she said, turning to smile at Sherlock.  
“You’re…welcome.”  
  
Sherlock turned away from her quickly, walking briskly to the kitchen only to come back out with a tray of food for Molly.  
  
“Smells wonderful,” she said, taking a deep appreciative breath.  
“Mrs Hudson prepared your meals before she left for Bingo this morning. I’d been tasked to keep them warm for you.”   
“I appreciate that, Sherlock.” Molly said, carefully receiving the tray and placing it on her lap.  
  
Molly had never been more grateful for the simple bowl of pumpkin soup and toast that were set before her. The pumpkin soup was warm, nourishing and perfect for her recovery. As she ate, she realised Sherlock had moved his armchair to be right in front of her daybed where he simply sat, watching her. She also realised he was not dressed for going out. He was in a t-shirt, some form of pyjama bottoms and with his signature long robe wrapped loosely around his frame.  
  
“So…any interesting cases while I’d been…asleep?” Molly asked, breaking the ice.   
“Not really. Another heist of sorts but I think it’s simple enough for Lestrade to get sorted.”  
“You really should be kinder to Greg. He does a splendid job.”  
“I suppose he does…on occasion.” said Sherlock, leaning back into his armchair.   
  
Molly smiled at his casual remark. She knew that he trusted Lestrade more than he let on. Regardless of whether Sherlock would ever succumb to properly remembering Lestrade’s first name, there was no doubt this consulting detective certainly respected Detective-Inspector Lestrade.  
  
As she slowly enjoyed her meal, Sherlock’s eyes never left Molly, and it was starting to unnerve her. She found herself getting more and more self-conscious about the way she was scooping the soup into her mouth, or the way she had to bite into her toast. Unable to stand it any longer, Molly gently put her spoon down, wiped her mouth and returned Sherlock’s stare. When she did so, his eyes widened with an odd mixture of surprise and guilt. Like he had been caught doing something he should not have been doing.   
  
“Sorry, I…” he muttered, suddenly scanning the flat for anything he could rest his eyes on other than Molly Hooper.   
“Are you okay, Sherlock?” Molly asked.   
“Fine, I’m fine.” he said, quickly glancing back at her with a split-second smile.  
“It’s just…you were staring. And I don’t know what at.” Molly remarked slowly and carefully.  
“Neither do I.” he answered.   
“Well, why don’t you head out for a bit? I’ll be all right here, now that I’ve had something to eat.” she said, gesturing to his homely outfit. “I think you need to get out of the flat.”  
“You sure?” he asked.  
  
To prove that she was all right, Molly held her tray and stood firmly up on her two feet. She gave him a grin and began walking to the kitchen.   
  
“Go on.” she said from the kitchen, “I’ll wash up here and sort myself out.”  
“There’s nothing for me to do out there,” he said, getting up to join her in the kitchen.  
  
Sherlock walked up to Molly and stood beside her. She was just about to soak the dishes when he took them from her hands.   
  
“Let’s do this together,” he said, turning to her, “Like when we’re at the lab.”  
“O-okay…” she replied, amused and perplexed. “If you say so.”  
“I do.” He said, with a charming half-smile.  
“You scrub, I’ll rinse.” Molly suggested.  
“Certainly.”  
  
As ever, Sherlock and Molly worked quietly and efficiently. The dishes were done in a jiffy and so quick were they at their little task, they decided to clean the whole kitchen up. Well, it was more Molly’s decision, really. It was her way of saying thank you to Mrs Hudson for sorting her meals out and, unlike Mrs Hudson, Molly had no qualms stumbling upon little zip-locked bags of severed toes and concealed jars of brains.  
  
“Oh! That’s Ronald Miller’s brain. I recognise the little Broca’s area lesion there.” she said, taking the large porcelain bowl out of the vegetable compartment in the fridge.  
“Hmm, yes.” Sherlock replied, amused.   
“Now, let’s save Mrs Hudson from more anxiety attacks and cordon off a section of the fridge for all your experiments, yes? It’s not good to have them scattered everywhere like that.”  
  
Sherlock stood back and observed his pathologist, who had now regained her strength from food and her vigour from having something to do. She continued to potter around the kitchen, cleaning off burnt fingernails from the oven grills and separating body parts from actual food. Her calmness around what he was accused of as ‘oddities’ genuinely struck him.   
  
“Molly Hooper, you are perfect.” he said aloud, accidentally.  
“Sorry, what?” she asked, turning to face him.   
“You. Are. Perfect.” he repeated, and smiled.  

* * *

“My brother does not _love_ , Evelyn. At least not in the way the world imagines.” said Mycroft.   
“Then I have no other way of explaining his obsession with Ms Hooper.”  
“I am sure you are mistaken, Evelyn.” Mycroft said, getting up from his seat.  
“Are we finished?” asked Evelyn.  
“Yes, Evelyn. We are.”   
  
Mycroft buttoned up his jacket and straightened his suit. He took a good look at Evelyn who suddenly seemed very small before him. Her eyes were falsely fierce and Mycroft could detect something about to crack beneath the surface.   
  
“I will see to it that your hospital is restored to its proper state and that all stolen property is returned.” Mycroft assured her.  
“And the girl?”  
“What about her?”  
“Shouldn’t something be done?”  
  
Smiling to himself, Mycroft reached for his mobile phone and casually scrolled through it, reading.   
  
“Surely there are more things for you to trouble yourself over, Evelyn? Your father tells me you have been travelling a lot recently. Hong Kong, Paris, Alger…”  
“That is completely unrelated to the topic at hand, Mycroft.”   
“Is it?” asked Mycroft, his politically correct smile in place.    
“Entirely.”  
“Perhaps.” Mycroft said, returning his phone to his pocket. “Good day, Evelyn. Thank you for tea.”  
“Mycroft!”  
“See you again, Evelyn. Perhaps at next week’s dinner for the outgoing Italian Ambassador.”  
“What are you going to do about Sherlock?” Evelyn was persistent and refused to drop the topic.  
“I will do what is necessary for the sake of the hospital and for the sake of law and order.”  
“What about the girl?”  
“I don’t think she should be of any concern, Evelyn.”  
“She works in my hospital. She is every bit a concern.”  
“Your concern seems, if I may be transparent, a little misplaced to me.”  
  
Evelyn walked up to Mycroft, looking up sharply into his cold, intelligent eyes.   
  
“Do something about her, Mycroft. Or I will.” she whispered fiercely.   
“What do you suggest I do?”   
“Anything that will keep her away from your brother.”  
“You mean, keep my brother away from her?”   
“I don’t see a difference.”  
“Oh, there is, Evelyn. Plenty.”    
“I don’t know what you’re playing at, Mycroft.”  
“Well,” said Mycroft, beginning his exit from the room, “I do.”  
  
When his back vanished from the doorway, Evelyn could only seethe where she was left standing. If Mycroft was not going to do what she wanted, then she would have to do it herself. 

* * *

“What are you talking about?” asked Molly, returning to her task. She had finally sorted out all his science equipment and created a little niche on the kitchen counter for all his apparatus.   
“You’re the only person who’s not screamed this place down or cursed me for what I consider to be activities terribly crucial to my work.”  
  
Hearing this, Molly let out a little chuckle and put away the last of the pipettes.   
  
“That hardly counts for calling someone _perfect_.” she remarked, heading back to the living room.   
“Why not?” he asked, following her.   
“Because no one is, Sherlock.” she answered, “No one can be inherently perfect.”  
“Well, you’re perfect for me.” he said, matter-of-factly.  
  
On hearing that, Molly could not help but chuckle lightly. Trust Sherlock Holmes to take an infamously clichéd declaration of love and friendship to one of scientific austerity.   
  
“What’s so funny?” he asked, frowning in puzzlement.  
“You.” Molly answered, biting her lip to stop further chuckling.  
“I don’t understand.”   
“And you probably won’t, Sherlock.” she said, smiling warmly at him.  
  
They were interrupted by the sound of Sherlock’s phone that suddenly began to buzz incessantly on his desk. Sherlock leapt out of his seat and quickly reached for it. When he saw the name on the screen he rolled his eyes and cancelled the call.  
  
“Who was it?” asked Molly.  
“Mycroft.” Sherlock muttered.  
“What do you think he wants?”  
“Nothing that would interest me, I’m sure.”  
“Right.” Molly could sense his sudden change in mood, “Perhaps I should…go take a shower. I hope you brought some of my things over?”  
“They’re in my room.” he answered, still visibly irritated from his brother’s call.  
“Right. Okay.” Molly answered, quickly escaping the scene of rising tension.  
  
When Molly left the room, Sherlock’s phone buzzed again. This time, it was a series of short buzzes in succession. Mycroft had resorted to sending texts. With an angry sigh, Sherlock unlocked his phone and with a cynical eye began to read through his brother’s messages.   
  
_I have been informed of some disturbances at St. Bart’s that point directly to you. – MH  
  
_ “Disturbances. Ha.” Sherlock scoffed to himself.  
  
_But what has most disturbed me has been the revelation that you are, perhaps, in love with Ms Hooper._ \- _MH  
_  
Sherlock was both shocked and perplexed at the message. Why would anyone have made that sort of revelation? Why did it concern anyone anyway?   
  
_I don’t know if there is something you haven’t told me, brother dear. But I will need to see that the hospital has its rightful property reinstated. I will be coming over to Baker Street to personally see to it. – MH_  
  
“Marvellous…” Sherlock cursed under his breath, flinging his phone onto the daybed. Why did Mycroft have to come meddling about his business, again? The hospital was perfectly fine without one ward’s worth of equipment and frankly, it meant one less patient for them to worry about. He took a deep breath and shut his eyes to think. This was all frightfully annoying.  
  
“Sherlock?” came Molly’s voice, from his room.  
“Yes?” he snapped out of his thoughts instantly and raced to his room. Since her poisoning, he had become a lot more acute to anything that had to do with Molly.   
  
He came rushing into his room to find her standing in front of his mirror, dressed in a fresh set of clothes, rubbing a towel through her damp hair.   
  
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to alarm you…” Molly said, a little stunned from how flustered he looked.   
“It’s fine. Did you need something?” he asked, relieved to see she was unharmed.   
“Yes, I was just wondering if you had a hair-dryer.” she said.   
“No, I don’t. Sorry.” he replied.   
  
“Perhaps you should go home, Ms Hooper,” came the one voice that grated most on Sherlock’s nerves. “You are bound to have the luxury of your hair dryer there. I am afraid this bachelor’s flat is a poor choice for housing a young lady.”  
“What are you doing here, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked, annoyed.   
“To find out what _she’s_ doing here, Sherlock.” Mycroft answered with the snide smile that Sherlock utterly detested.   
  
Sherlock strode up to his brother and stared hard at him.  
  
“You have no business coming here.” said Sherlock vehemently to his brother.  
“Law and order is part of my business, Sherlock,” Mycroft answered calmly, “And when it has been disturbed, it most certainly becomes my business.”  
  
Mycroft sauntered to the living room and sat himself down at Sherlock’s desk. Sherlock followed and sat in his own armchair. Molly was a little unsure about what to do, but decided to stick with Sherlock and so quietly joined the brothers while slowly drying her hair, as surreptitiously as she possibly could.   
  
“Now, brother, if you would be so kind as to explain yourself.” Mycroft began, “Brevity is much appreciated. I haven’t got all day.”


	11. Chapter 11

The two brothers faced each other in silence while Molly looked on, drying her hair nervously as though the movement itself would set either of the brothers off. Sherlock’s hard, steely gaze silently combatted his brother’s nonchalant yet knowing look. It felt as though the very air around them was going to crack.   
    
“So, should I go put the kettle on?” asked Molly, feebly attempting to break the ice.   
“If you would be so kind, Ms Hooper,” Mycroft answered, smiling in her direction. “Perhaps you could run by the shops and get us some biscuits too…”   
“She stays _here_ ,” interrupted Sherlock, “We have biscuits in the tin above the tea, haven’t we, Molly?”   
“Um…yes, of course…” she replied, wishing she had stayed behind in Sherlock’s room. It felt like a volcano was about to erupt out here.   
    
Mycroft smiled at his brother in the sickening way Sherlock detested.   
    
“I don’t think you want Ms Hooper to be privy to the conversation we are about to have,” Mycroft said calmly.   
“She stays here.” Sherlock repeated.   
“So be it.” Mycroft said, folding his arms. “Some tea would be lovely, Ms Hooper.”   
    
Molly gave a nervous smile and quickly escaped to the kitchen. The two brothers said nothing whilst she made the tea. It was so silent that even the clinking of teaspoons against the porcelain of the saucers seemed deafening. Sherlock had griped and grumbled many times about his irritation with his brother, but she had never witnessed it firsthand. Molly made a mental note to never again be in the same room with them both.   
    
When tea was brought out and everyone was settled, Mycroft turned to Molly and asked:   
    
“So, Ms Hooper, as my brother is not inclined to speaking with me, I should like to ask you instead. What _are_ you doing here in Baker Street?”   
“I don’t know, to be honest.” she answered. “I was in hospital one day and here the next.”   
“Oh, for God’s sake, Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped, “She was not safe at Bart’s and I brought her here.”   
“You will need to elaborate, Sherlock. Lest people think the infamous detective has gotten a little overprotective.”   
“What do you mean, people?” Sherlock literally spat the words out.   
“Evelyn Lancaster,” Mycroft replied calmly, “I’ve just had tea with her. That’s how I got wind of the little hospital heist you pulled.”   
    
Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh and sank deeper into his armchair, his fingers impatiently tapping against the arm rests.   
    
“Nice to see you’ve been talking to Evelyn,” said the detective.   
“And you’ve not been talking to her enough, apparently,” Mycroft remarked smiling.   
    
The tall and lean figure of Mycroft leaned forward in his seat, placing his elbows on Sherlock’s desk. Sherlock dodged his brother’s unmoving gaze upon him, choosing to remain sullen and observing the floor.   
    
“Have you forgotten, Sherlock, why I’d sent you to the gala in the first place?” asked Mycroft.   
    
His sullen-faced brother did not answer. Molly could see Sherlock’s jaw muscle twitch from how tightly he was clenching it.   
    
“No.” he answered quietly.   
“Then why are you being so antagonistic? You owed me a favour and you fulfilled it. But it only marked the beginning of the case, brother. And we both agreed it would be beneficial.”   
“Yes, I know.”  Sherlock could not argue.   
“Our little act of public relations at the gala was to ensure a smoother transition into it all and it seems you have completely undone your part in the plan.”   
    
Molly’s mind was cast back to the gala. She was reminded of their awful meeting with Evelyn in the middle of their dance. What had been the plan and what had been the undoing? It was all very unclear to Molly.   
    
“It’s a good thing she’s not caught on to what I’ve got on her, Sherlock, but you…” Mycroft’s voice dropped to a whisper, “Your cracks are beginning to show.”   
“I have no cracks,” Sherlock retorted, whipping his head up to stare at his brother.   
    
A wry smile appeared on Mycroft’s face as he glanced fleetingly to Molly before turning to look back at his brother.   
    
“Then I suggest you restore your flat to normal, send Ms Hooper back and concentrate on what is salvageable of the case, Sherlock.” said Mycroft coolly.   
“I will solve the case, Mycroft. But Molly is not safe.”   
“How has her safety been compromised?” asked Mycroft, raising his eyebrows, “More importantly, how is the safety of Ms Hooper part of this equation?”   
“She was poisoned, Mycroft! By the very woman we are trying to hunt.” Sherlock replied, almost roaring at his brother.   
    
This was news to Mycroft, which was rare. Hardly anything slipped him by and so this piece of information intrigued him. There was no reason he could think of as to why Molly Hooper would suddenly be involved. She had never been in Evelyn’s line of sight or radar and therefore would never have been a target. He failed to make the connection, which made the poisoning incident a sudden spanner in Mycroft’s perfectly calculated works. He was now silent as he processed what his brother had just told him, albeit a little dramatically. He bowed his head to think but from the corners of his eyes he caught Molly’s hand reaching out tentatively for his brother’s shoulder, patting him gently as though to soothe him, and it seemed it worked. His brother’s face softened and his head angled ever so slightly in the direction of the pathologist.   
    
“I see,” said Mycroft finally.   
“What?” asked Sherlock.   
    
Rising from his seat, Mycroft walked towards his brother’s armchair, towering above him. He took a good look at Molly and then at his brother.   
    
“I don’t know how you’ve managed to bring Ms Hooper into all of this, Sherlock but I can see now she is in imminent danger. It still begs the question why, but I will leave it for now…”   
“She’s in danger because Evelyn is a psychotic witch who likes playing games.” interrupted Sherlock, rising too from his seat and meeting his brother eye to eye.   
“This is feeling all too…personal, for my liking…”   
“What are you implying?” Sherlock muttered through clenched teeth.   
“You really need to calm down, Sherlock. This is how cracks show.” Mycroft replied.   
“I will not have my best pathologist at the mercy of a ruthless ring leader who deals with devils just because she’s a bored spoilt brat.”  
“There you see, it is plainly obvious why she’d taken such a fancy to you…”   
“She can take whatever fancy she likes, Mycroft, but I will not deal with her that way again.”   
“She only wanted a dance, Sherlock, and some attention. It was the perfect way in.”   
“Just a dance!” Sherlock scoffed, “Do you know anything about women like her?”   
“Do you?” asked Mycroft.   
“Sherlock, enough.” said Molly calmly but firmly. Her hand reached out for his arm, pulling him back from his brother.   
    
Sherlock was shocked at her intervention and turned to look at her.   
    
“Your brother is right. Everything you’ve done, at least from what I’ve seen from my end…has been without a logical explanation,” Molly began, “And I know you’re always logical. So calm down and tell us what’s going on.”   
“Ms Hooper is right,” Mycroft continued, “There is something you’re not telling us. But I suspect it’s because there’s something you’ve not even realised yourself.”   
“I don’t know what you’re implying, Mycroft, but I am not losing an asset to my work to a crazed woman out to waste my time.”   
“An asset?” Mycroft repeated.   
    
Molly unknowingly released her hold on Sherlock’s arm. Perhaps she too had been getting carried away with her own feelings. She was, after all, just an asset to Sherlock, his source of information, his key to the morgue and his provider of resources.   
    
“If Ms Lancaster really is a threat, Sherlock, then she’ll know where to find me. She’ll know that you’ve taken me.” Molly said quietly.   
“She already does.” Mycroft added.   
“Then I think your brother is right. I cannot stay here.” said Molly. “Let your brother take me somewhere else to recover.”   
“I agree. Thank you, Ms Hooper, for being a voice of reason.” Mycroft remarked, with a nod of respect to Molly.   
“I don’t know what case it is you have with her, Sherlock, but I’m not getting involved. At least not any further.” Molly said, “Sherlock?”   
    
Sherlock was silent. Inside, he was distraught. Something about Molly being out of his sight completely unnerved him.   
    
“I’m just going to get my things. Let me know what to do next, Mr Holmes,” she said, nodding to Mycroft before running to get her things.   
    
When Molly had gone off, Sherlock sat back down in his armchair, still not saying a word. Mycroft pulled up a chair in front of him and studied his brooding brother.   
    
“You’ll keep her safe?” asked Sherlock quietly.   
“Yes. You have my word.” Mycroft answered.   
“Evelyn drugged her, Mycroft. She almost died.” Sherlock said, staring angrily at his brother.   
“I suspect, brother,” Mycroft remarked softly, “You are responsible for putting Ms Hooper in this situation.”   
“Me?” Sherlock responded incredulously.   
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”   
“Molly is just my pathologist.”   
“ _A_ pathologist, brother, not yours.”   
“I work only with the best.”   
“Is that really the reason why, Sherlock?” asked Mycroft knowingly.   
    
Sherlock grew mum and turned from his brother to stare blankly at the daybed before them.   
    
“I thought Evelyn was joking, or being dramatic,” said Mycroft, “But I think she was right.”   
“Right about what?” asked Sherlock, his eyes fixed ahead of him.   
“That a particular crack is showing, Sherlock.” said Mycroft.   
    
Molly returned to the sitting room with her bag of things. Standing awkwardly by the door, she smiled briefly as the two men turned to face her.   
    
“I’m ready,” she said, nodding to Mycroft.   
    
Sherlock stood up and strode briskly to her, stopping short before almost knocking into her. He just stood there, barely an inch from her. She looked up at him warily, unsure of what he was about to say.   
    
“Are you sure you don’t want to stay here?” he asked her quietly.   
    
Molly was not expecting him to say that and stared back at him wide-eyed. She looked hard at him, studying him and simply could not place his words. What had he been up to all this while? From asking her to dance, to injuring her, to kidnapping her from the hospital - how did all these events add up? To top it all off, it seemed to have culminated in Evelyn Lancaster’s singular aim of hurting her.  
    
“I’ll stay if you tell me what’s really going on,” she whispered.   
    
Sherlock turned to his brother, whose face remained expressionless.   
    
“Are you asking me for permission?” said Mycroft, “That’s certainly a first.”   
“I can keep her safe, Mycroft.” Sherlock said, a dogged determination in his voice.   
“No, you can’t.” Mycroft responded calmly.   
    
Mycroft reached for his mobile phone and began scrolling through it. When he had found what he wanted, he handed the phone to his brother.   
    
“Read this and see if you still think you can keep her safe.”   
    
Sherlock grabbed the phone and pored over its contents. As he scrolled through the messages in Mycroft’s phone, Sherlock’s’ eyes widened in horror. They were messages from all of Mycroft’s secret eyes and ears that had been tracking Evelyn’s every move. Mycroft had immediately upped the surveillance around his brother right after his tea with Evelyn. Mycroft had a sinking feeling their plan had gone completely awry and that Sherlock could be in danger. Instead, the messages revealed that yes, while 221B was a definite target and Evelyn was going to strike within the next twelve hours, the real cause for horror was that the target in question was Molly. As he read on, he discovered the details behind Evelyn’s covert but elaborate instructions to draw Sherlock out of the flat so as to get to Molly. Everything was planned out to the littlest detail and it was going to happen before the night was up.   
    
“Go. Go with Mycroft.” Sherlock said, handing the phone back to his brother.   
“What’s going on?” asked Molly, worried from Sherlock’s face that turned white from fear.   
“I’ll tell you another time, I promise.” He said, looking earnestly at her, “But for now, Molly, go with Mycroft.”   
“All right…” she said, looking in Mycroft’s direction.   
    
Mycroft returned his phone to his pocket and observed the pair. His brother’s error was so glaring and yet, it evaded Sherlock completely. It was good, in a way. Not realising his great error meant Sherlock could still focus and be effective. Mycroft was not going to say a word, but just as he cared for his brother, he also cared for those whom his brother cared for.   
    
“The wisest decision you’ve made in a long while, Sherlock.” Said Mycroft.   
“I certainly hope so.” Sherlock replied, looking hard at his brother.   
    
Mycroft understood the look and returned it with a nod of assurance in Molly’s direction.   
    
“I will keep her safe, Sherlock. I promise you. But now, I need you to focus and stay in the game.” Mycroft moved closer to the door and continued, “If you want Ms Hooper to really be safe, then finish this Evelyn business as we had discussed. I cannot keep Ms Hooper in hiding forever.” 

Sherlock responded with a single, solemn nod. 

“I understand,” he said quietly.   
    
Mycroft bade his brother goodbye and led the way out of the flat. A car had been readied and Mycroft’s plan to protect and provide Molly with hospital care was already swiftly under way. As the sound of Mycroft’s footsteps and that distinct tapping of his umbrella faded down the stairways, Molly looked up quickly at Sherlock, smiling gratefully.   
    
“You took great care of me. Thank you.” she said.   
“You’re welcome.” That was all he could say.   
    
They stood by each other with renewed awkwardness and could not really keep their gazes on each other. Molly sighed softly to herself whilst Sherlock bit the insides of his mouth and stared out of the window.   
    
“Well.” Molly said at last, “Bye…then, Sherlock.”   
    
In a flash, she was out of the flat, walking quickly down the stairs so as not to delay Mycroft any further. Sherlock remained fixed in his spot, listening to her fading footsteps. Before he let it fade it too far, however, the detective suddenly sprung into life again, charging down the stairs. Just as he reached the main door of 221B, he saw Molly standing beside a sleek black car where one of Mycroft’s bodyguards was just about to get the car door for her.   
    
Before she could set one foot into the car, he rushed to her side and held her. He crushed Molly to himself and wrapped his arms tightly around her, planting the softest kiss on the edge of her temple.   
    
“Be well, Molly Hooper,” he whispered, before releasing her.   
    
Stunned, she staggered back when he let go of her. The rush of his embrace sent a warm rush of blood to her face, filling her with nostalgic affection she had promised to never feel again. Taking a deep breath, she fought back the rising wave of emotion that flooded her ribcage, smiling kindly at the detective before her. Without a word, and because she could not find a response, Molly got into the car, out of sight from Sherlock.   
    
As she sank down into the luxurious leather seats of the car, Mycroft, who was seated beside her turned to her with a knowing half-smile. He had seen his brother’s farewell to his pathologist and the depth of Sherlock’s emotion only translated to the gravity of his error.   
    
“You are definitely in danger, Ms Hooper.” Mycroft said to Molly, “If you believe in a higher power, I suggest you pray to it now, for the sake of us all.”   
    
As the car drove out of Baker Street, Mycroft peered out of his tinted window to where Sherlock was still standing. Molly followed suit and turned back to look. She felt a little thud in her chest and quickly returned her gaze to the front. Mycroft observed her and sighed.   
    
“May God help us all,” said Mycroft, as he began making calls.   
    
Sherlock watched the black car grow smaller and smaller before turning a corner and disappearing from the street. His eyes grew hard as he took a deep, calculated breath. Slowly, he returned to his flat and stood in front of the mirror at his mantelpiece. A wry smile crept across his face as the cogs in his mind began to turn.   
    
“You want a dance?” he whispered bitterly, staring at his reflection, “Then a dance you shall have, Ms Lancaster.”


	12. Chapter 12

The work Sherlock had to do was slow and painstaking. If he was going to rebuild what he had undone with Evelyn Lancaster, he had to start from the very bottom again. Removing Molly from the picture was the first step. This had been accomplished swiftly through the capable hands of his brother. Sherlock did not want to admit it, but he was grateful Mycroft had intervened when he did.   
  
Mycroft had arranged to meet Evelyn, as the brothers had agreed, the very evening Molly had been taken away into safety. The meeting was to ensure Evelyn was given the satisfaction that Mycroft had acceded to her requests. She had taken the bait and aborted her plans to extract Molly from Baker Street. Mycroft had informed her that it was all a misunderstanding, that it was the pressing need of a case that demanded his brother’s sudden protectiveness over the pathologist. It was nothing more, Evelyn had been assured.   
  
Sherlock could not be sure she would take the second bait that Molly was completely separate from his life and his work. For the time being, he decided that operating alone, as he always had, would be best. Molly would recuperate wherever Mycroft was keeping her and when she was well, she would resume her work as per normal. The brothers had decided that overprotecting Molly would arouse Evelyn’s suspicions again. So it was agreed that once Molly had finished her required hospital stay under Mycroft’s close watch, she would return to her flat and continue at Bart’s.  
  
In the meantime, Sherlock lived as he did normally. He ran around doing his cases, getting himself into the papers, into courtrooms and into Scotland Yard press conferences. He stayed in the limelight. More importantly, he stayed in the limelight alone.   
  
The weeks went by and Sherlock was solving case after case, as though merely ticking them off a checklist. Every few days he would make the front page or appear on the news.   
  
“You are astounding, Mr Holmes…” Evelyn whispered to herself as she greedily devoured his latest success. It had been a triple poisoning and he had led Scotland Yard to the murderer just in time to prevent another murderous wave.   
  
She folded the papers neatly and took a sip of her breakfast tea, starting out of her study window. Smiling to herself, she picked her phone up and toyed with the screen, sliding her thumb across it, locking and unlocking it over and over again. Mycroft had been so kind as to give her his brother’s newest mobile phone number. _Regrettably, it had gotten lost in the Thames on a case,_ Mycroft had said regarding Sherlock’s previous mobile phone.   
  
Since their less than pleasant confrontation in the hospital ward at Bart’s, Evelyn had seen Sherlock on only one other occasion. A week after she had met with Mycroft, she had attended the outgoing Italian Ambassador’s farewell dinner. At the gala, she knew to expect Mycroft. However, when his dashing, brooding younger brother showed up beside him, Evelyn was a little daunted at first, only to be pleasantly surprised.   
  
Sherlock had been cordial to her, neither ignoring her nor giving her too much attention, but he had smiled at her in a way that made her heart lurch. He had done it four times and she remembered each moment. The first was when he had greeted her with Mycroft. He smiled with his eyes twinkling at her as he reached to kiss her hand, his eyes not once leaving her face. He said not a word, but he did not have to. The second time was when he had walked past her table on his way to the gents. He nodded in her direction and gave her a warm but almost shy half smile, quickly turning away as he hurried off. When he smiled at her the third time, she had just stepped off stage after giving a little speech thanking the Ambassador. As she gracefully descended the steps, she caught his gaze that never left her from the moment she had been on stage. It was when she returned his look that he, while politely applauding with the rest of the guests, gave her a dazzling smile in her direction. And finally, before the night was up, Sherlock had followed his brother and together with Mycroft, bade Evelyn goodbye. He stepped toward her, his tall frame towering above her and leaned to give her a light peck on the cheek. Before he turned to leave, he shot her one more smile, a bright one that lingered the longest in her memory that evening.   
  
It was now a few weeks after the dinner and not once had Evelyn not thought about him. Furthermore, she saw him everywhere else – the papers, the news and the press releases. She could not escape hearing his name, but she hardly minded. She continued to toy with her slim, metallic phone, her perfectly manicured nails fiddling with it as she leaned back in her seat. Evelyn shut her eyes and relived the smiles he had given her that evening. Before long she could feel her pulse race and the blood rush to her cheeks. Her eyes snapped open immediately. She had to see him soon or she was going to explode from madness.   
  
She stopped spinning her phone and unlocked it, scrolling frantically for his name. When she found it, her fingertip was a mere millimetre away from touching the screen and dialling his number. Suddenly, the phone on her desk rang and she quickly hit the speaker button to answer it.  
  
“Yes?”  
“Ms Lancaster, you have a visitor.”  
“Oh? I’m not expecting anyone at this hour.”  
“He insisted on coming in Miss, I’m sorry. He says he’s unarmed and has made his way into the sitting room.”  
“I’m on my way.”  
  
Evelyn took a sharp breath and collected herself. In her line of work, she had to be very careful with unexpected guests. She quickly pulled out a secret compartment from beneath her elaborate office chair and retrieved a small gun. She put on a blazer that went over her fitted dress and tucked the gun inside the blazer. One could never be too careful when dealing with drug lords.  
  
She strode confidently down the corridor from her study to her luxuriously spacious sitting room. To her surprise, the man sitting on her designer sofa was a familiar and rather welcome sight. His back was ramrod-straight as he sat with one lithe leg crossed over the other as his eyes slowly roved around the room, taking in every detail. With a genuine sigh of relief, Evelyn carefully removed her blazer. There was definitely no need for a gun.  
  
“Mr Holmes?” she asked, still a little unsure.  
“You never call me that,” he said, turning to face her as he politely rose from the sofa.  
“What are you doing here?” she asked, genuinely surprised.   
“I didn’t think I needed an invitation to come and see you,” he said with a charming smirk.  
“No..no…of course not,” she replied, taken aback at how brazen his tone was. Turning to a housemaid who stood quietly by a doorway, she asked for some tea for her guest.   
  
Sherlock ushered her to an armchair next to his seat on the corner of the sofa. Like a proper gentleman, he waited until she was seated before sitting himself down.   
  
“Hello, Evelyn,” he said, turning to smile at her.   
  
Her heart raced to her throat and threatened to choke her from surprise. Evelyn told herself to stay composed as the handsome detective continued to speak.  
  
“Lovely place,” he said, looking around.  
“Thank you, Sherlock.” She said.   
“Ah, first names at last.” he exclaimed, his gaze returning to her.   
  
Evelyn had to look away. His gaze was so direct and somewhat overwhelming, but had this not been what she wanted, his undivided attention? He had even called her _Evelyn_ , after warring about it for so long. She was suspicious of this change, but the effect of his smiles and his charm was far too distracting for her to think about anything else.   
  
“To what do I owe this pleasure of your presence?” she said, finally looking up at him.  
“You ask incorrectly, Evelyn.” He said, reaching inside his jacket, “ _To whom_ is the more accurate pronoun.”  
“All right, to whom, then?” she asked, loosening up a little.   
  
From inside his jacket, Sherlock took out a beautifully decorated envelope. He held it between two fingers and handed it to Evelyn. She took the envelope from him and opened it, taking out a most elaborately designed invitation card.  
  
“ _Turandot_ ,” she breathed, “At the Royal Opera House…”  
“Yes, my brother was invited to the opening gala…champagne and dinner and all,” Sherlock explained, “But regretfully, he is unable to make it and so handed the invite to me in the hopes that you would join me.”  
“Why would he want that?” Evelyn asked, looking up from the tickets.   
“Well…” Sherlock said, the look in his eyes softening, “It’s because he knows _I’d_ like that.”  
“Like…what?” Evelyn asked slowly.  
“For you to join me.” He said, “A beautiful opera with a beautiful woman would certainly make for a splendid evening.”  
  
There were no words that Evelyn could think of, no response, no witty line nor even a flirtatious comeback. However, she stopped herself and gathered her thoughts. Surely, Sherlock was not _that_ obvious?  
  
“Sherlock,” she said, smoothly, “I think you’re playing a rather obvious game.”  
“I’m not playing at anything.” He answered, looking her right in the eyes.   
“Have you forgotten every conversation we’ve had before this one? We were practically at war!” she said with a laugh. “All because of _your_ pathologist.   
“Now, _that_ one…” he said as he reached for her hand that rested on her lap, “ _That_ , Evelyn, was a game.”  
“What do you mean?” Evelyn tried helplessly to regulate her breathing now that Sherlock’s fingers gently began to stroke the back of her hand.  
  
Sherlock withdrew his hand and noted the quick flash in Evelyn’s eyes when he did. He smirked to himself and leaned back into the sofa.   
  
“We’re very alike, Evelyn, you and me,” he said.   
  
She raised an eyebrow coyly at him, waiting for him to continue.  
  
“We’re surrounded by fools, are we not?” he remarked.   
“I didn’t think you considered Ms Hooper a fool…”  
“I don’t consider her anything,” Sherlock interrupted. He wanted to wince at his own words, but he swallowed hard and persevered with a smile.  
“Then why start a war with me about her?” Evelyn asked, leaning forward in her seat.  
“Because, Evelyn…” Sherlock said, sitting forward as well, “I think you’re rather worth fighting for.”

* * *

Molly knocked tentatively at the rich mahogany door that had been left ajar. Mycroft looked up from his documents upon hearing her knocks and offered a kind smile.   
  
“Good to see you on your feet, Ms Hooper.” He said, putting his pen down, “You look well.”  
“I have you to thank,” she said quietly, “It’s been wonderful here.”   
“All in a day’s work, Ms Hooper,” Mycroft replied, “but you are welcome.”  
“I’m going to be discharged today, so I thought I’d come say goodbye and thank you.”  
“Yes, I was informed. I am glad for your clean bill of health.”  
“Yes, so am I.” she said, nodding gratefully.  
  
Molly stood by the door, as though hesitant to say something, or hesitant to leave. Mycroft sensed this and spoke very gently.  
  
“Is there something troubling you?” 

He studied her carefully and noticed the way she was studying her shoes. 

“I just…” she began, her voice unsteady, “Could you…”  
“I will update him on your well-being, Ms Hooper, if that’s what you wish.” Mycroft said kindly. Molly looked up at him finally and smiled.   
  
“You really are the smart one,” she said with a gentle laugh. “You read me a lot better than he does.”  
“Ms Hooper, if my reading of the _both_ of you has been accurate then I do regret that you are most likely still a blind spot to Sherlock,” Mycroft said, “And for that, I do apologise.”  
“You’ve nothing to be sorry for…” Molly remarked, puzzled.  
“Growing up, we both made the astute decision to be wary of what we feel and how we feel.” Mycroft said, “I still believe in its importance and so does Sherlock.”  
“I see.” Molly said, with a solemn nod.  
“However, Ms Hooper, if I may,” Mycroft continued, “Sherlock deliberately blindsiding himself from the way he feels about you is probably the furthest from astute.”  
“I don’t know if that is something I should find flattering, or be happy about…” Molly remarked quizzically.  
“That depends, Ms Hooper, on your feelings for my adventurous little brother.”   
“I’m not too sure about that myself, Mr Holmes.”  
“Please,” he said, “Call me Mycroft.”  
“Why?” asked Molly.   
“Because, Molly,” said Mycroft with a smile, “I have an inkling that one day, on account of my brother, you and I might be sharing the family name.”

* * *

The maid had brought in the tea and set it before Evelyn and the detective beside her. Evelyn’s mind was spinning. This was Sherlock Holmes she was dealing with and she tread around his conversation very suspiciously. He was telling her everything she wanted to hear. So much of her yearned to give in and to enjoy him, but there were too many warning bells that sounded in her head.   
  
Sherlock continued to look at her, his eyes clear and his gaze strong. He had nothing to hide and he wanted Evelyn to see that.   
  
“Well, then…” he said, getting up from his seat, “I shall await your response. The gala is this Friday and I hope to hear from you before then.”  
“Where are you going?” asked Evelyn, “The maid’s only just brought in the tea.”  
“It seems I have called on you too late,” he said quietly, “Your interest has waned and I only have myself to blame.”  
  
He carried on walking, making sure not to turn back and headed for the door. Evelyn got up and ran after him, her hand reaching for him. She wrapped her fingers tightly around his wrist and he stopped.   
  
“Nothing has waned, Sherlock,” she said. He could hear the subtle slip of vulnerability in her voice and smiled to himself.   
“Then I will see you this Friday?” he asked, turning to face her.   
“Yes,” she said, letting go of his wrist and stepping toward him, “It would be my pleasure.”  
“There is no dancing, I’m afraid. Not at an opera,” he said, closing the gap between them. “I do owe you a dance, don’t I?” Sherlock whispered, barely an inch from her.  
  
The proximity was tantalising but his soft whisper to her sealed the deal. Evelyn could not help herself and reached for him with both hands, drawing him towards her for a kiss. To her surprise, he obliged, following her lead, letting her bring his lips to meet hers. She nearly stopped breathing as she moved her mouth against his, teasing it, testing him.   
  
Sherlock had plotted this scene many times before in his head and he had it calculated perfectly. The first thing he had to do was to tell himself to count. With every movement she made, every twitch of the lip and every swipe of the tongue, he would count. He would not focus on the sensation of skin against skin. Instead, he was just going to focus on counting. Her hands on his face held him firmly to her and he remembered to reciprocate. His hands would do what his heart would not. As he counted, his heartbeat stayed regular, his blood pressure, level, but his hands would tell Evelyn otherwise as he reached for her face first. Then, at the appropriately timed moment when she shifted, closing the gap between them entirely, he slid both hands down to her waist, remembering to apply just the right amount of pressure, giving her a sense of his grip.   
  
When she finally pulled apart, satisfied with their kiss. She ran her thumb across his mouth, in a state of delirious disbelief. Sherlock remembered to smile for her, deliberately lifting the corners of his mouth and keeping his eyes fixed on her.   
  
“And to whom do I owe _this_ pleasure?” she whispered to him, her hands unable to leave his face.   
  
Sherlock laughed, amused, and took one of her hands in his, bringing it to his lips for a kiss.   
  
“This one, you owe entirely to yourself, Evelyn.” He replied, keeping her hand in his.   
“But what now, of your pathologist?”  
“We shall not discuss her anymore.”  
“But you seem to…care for her so,” she said softly, a strange sadness tinting her voice as she leaned her head against his chest.  
“Well, you shouldn’t have poisoned her…” he said teasingly, “I _was_ in the middle of a case and her death would have been terribly inconvenient.”  
  
At that, Evelyn laughed before shutting her eyes to enjoy the crisp, polished scent of his shirt.  
  
“You’re right, Sherlock,” she murmured against him, “We really _are_ alike.”  
“I am never wrong, Evelyn,” he said, letting go of her hand to properly wrap his arms around her.  
“You and me,” she said, looking up at him, “We are _devoted_ to our work, our craft.”  
“Absolutely,” he answered, returning her gaze.  
“She isn’t someone you could take to _Turandot_ anyway…” she said.  
“No, definitely not,” he echoed, smiling at her and ignoring the slight hollowing in his chest.  
  
They stood like that for what felt like eternity to Sherlock. With her body contoured so closely to him, it was the closest he had ever been with anyone. There was something stifling about it but he had to persevere. He shut his eyes and kept counting, keeping his breath even and pacing it.   
  
“So, Friday night?” he asked, reaching a little awkwardly to touch her hair.   
“Mmm, absolutely,” she replied, finally stepping away from him.   
“I’ll come pick you up just before six.” he said, “Don't want to miss the champagne.”  
“No, we certainly don’t.” she answered, beaming at him.   
“Until then, Evelyn, be good,” he said with a wink before heading to the door.   
  
When Sherlock stepped out of the elevator and exited the building, he took his phone out and sent a text to his brother.  
  
_The fat lady sings_. – SH  
  
_Excellent. – MH  
  
What of the sparrow? – SH  
  
Wings mended and flying back to its nest. – MH   
  
_ Upon seeing Mycroft’s message, Sherlock smiled a small smile of relief as his heart beat just a few extra beats. He then closed the text windows with his brother and found himself searching for his contacts. When he found Molly’s he paused, his finger poised just above it. _A call would be too much_. _Perhaps I should text_ _her,_ thought Sherlock. However, he remembered his brother’s words and the intricate plan they had been weaving since Molly had left with Mycroft. If he wanted Molly safe, if he wanted to have her alive, he had to now live and act like she did not exist. Sherlock was perplexed at how difficult this seemed to him. Every part of him wanted to go see her, to hear her voice, to ask her things and talk about everything from bad coffee to isotopes.   
  
_The nest is to be undisturbed_ – _MH  
  
_ Mycroft’s message appeared suddenly, overriding the screen that had Molly’s number on it. It was as though his brother had read his mind. Sherlock had to concede that Mycroft really was more astute sometimes.   
  
_Until the curtains close, the sparrow flies alone. – MH  
  
The fat lady will sing and the lights will go out.  
Keep the sparrow flying. – SH  
  
Affirmative, brother. – MH  
_  
As Sherlock returned the phone to his pocket, he felt as though his heart had disappeared from his chest. It was probably flying somewhere, on a pair of newly-mended wings, to a nest he could not reach just yet. When he climbed into the cab and sank into its leather seat, Sherlock shut his eyes and tried to concentrate. There was much he had to do before his night at the opera, but he found that he could not keep his mind on it. Suddenly, his phone buzzed and he reached clumsily for it. What else did Mycroft want?  
  
_Your brother told me not to contact you.  
But it feels strange not to have spoken with you for so long.  
I am well, and en route home.  
I hope you are too.   
If you need more sodium hydroxide from Bart’s…  
You know where to find my spare supply key on my desk.  
Don’t reply if it will get you in trouble. – M  
  
_ Sherlock smiled and felt a small segment of his heart return to his chest. He could feel the thudding beneath his ribcage as the memory of her face, her voice and her lovely touch travelled along his skin like a slow, prickling current.  
  
_I never get in trouble, Molly Hooper._ – _SH  
  
_ He laughed quietly to himself at his reply. Even now, he was still his arrogant, beastly self. How she tolerated him was quite beyond him.   
  
_Well, be careful. I shouldn’t like to lose you… – M_  
  
What little heart that had returned to him quite nearly exploded in his chest. Sherlock tried counting, tried shutting his eyes, tried keeping his breath even but his pulse only escalated.   
  
_You won’t. – SH_  
  
Good. – M  
  
You be careful, Molly Hooper. – SH  
  
I will. – M  
  
I shouldn’t like to lose you either. – SH


	13. Chapter 13

In the car, on the way home to her flat, Molly could not wipe the smile off her face. Over and over again, she read the words that Sherlock had sent to her. Yes, Sherlock Holmes, it was Sherlock Holmes that had said that to her. For a moment, she was suspicious. Perhaps this was like the card and the tea again. After spending time under Mycroft’s care in one of his many secret establishments, Molly had been taught to be far more critical about the things around her. She then became far more critical when she remembered what Sherlock had said the day she left Baker Street.   
  
_Silly girl_ , she chided herself internally, _Of course he wouldn’t want to lose you…_  
  
Molly locked her phone and returned the screen to its state of darkness. Turning to the window, she sighed quietly as glimpses of London flashed her by.  
  
_After all, you’re just an asset_ , she reminded herself.   
  
When she turned the key to the door at her flat, she surveyed the room and slowly remembered its quiet solitude. Emptiness was something she had gotten used to, particularly after her father had passed away. And in a way, this emptiness was a comfort. After Molly set her bags down, she began to straighten out her flat, dusting it from its weeks of disuse. Returning to her bedroom, she unzipped her bags and began reinstating all her personal items back where they belonged. When she was done, she sat by her dressing table and saw her Bart’s staff tag strewn untidily across the surface. She looked at it and stared at her awkward photo. She laughed quietly to herself at what she felt was an odd expression and a rather silly-looking pair of glasses. Slowly, she ran her thumb across her own picture and smiled resolutely to herself.   
  
“Just an asset, Molly Hooper,” she whispered to herself, “Learn your place.”

* * *

For a woman who was never shy about the way she looked and more than confident in her own skin, Evelyn was having something akin to a meltdown. Tonight was _Turandot_ night and she was seated in her elaborate boudoir, wrapped only in a lavender silk robe, in complete mental disarray. Her hair was twisted up roughly, just to get it out of the way for the time being. With a frustrated huff, she examined herself in the mirror, unsure of how one got ready for a night like this, a night with Sherlock Holmes. Sighing, she fell back against her luxurious bed on what looked like clouds for pillows. The feeling of cool silk against her fresh skin provided a temporary reprieve. Evelyn shut her eyes and replayed the kiss she had with the brooding object of her desire and could not suppress the smile on her face.   
  
_Delicious_ , _delicious, delicious_ , thought Evelyn to herself as she summoned the memory of his hands gripping her waist. _So delicious I could die…_  
  
However, Evelyn could not afford to take forever getting ready. He was coming to pick her up and the last thing she wanted to be was unprepared and late. Still wrapped in her robe, she got up and walked casually through her enormous walk-in wardrobe and scanned the rows and rows of dresses.   
  
“Lanvin, let’s go with the Lanvin. I’ve not worn this one yet…” she murmured to herself as she touched the luxurious emerald green satin of the gown in question. She pulled it out and pressed it against herself as she admired it in the mirror. It was a gorgeous toga dress, long and decadent with an array of intricate jewelled embellishments along the neckline. “Definitely the Lanvin,” she said to herself, smiling with satisfaction.   
  
Evelyn sauntered back into her bedroom and draped the gown across one of her settees. She settled back at her dressing table and let down her hair. As she contemplated what to do with it, she heard a knock on her door. It was the maid. Had she ordered some tea before heading out? Perhaps she had. It was good timing anyway, she needed suggestions for how best to coif her hair to go with the dress.  
  
“Come in,” she said, without bothering to turn around. “I’m in an absolute fix, Helena, you really have to help me with this one.”  
  
There was no response from the maid but Evelyn could hear the door open cautiously and quiet footsteps coming towards her. She opened up a drawer and began to sieve through her make-up. She would think about jewellery later.   
  
“I’ve decided to wear the Lanvin that just came in the other day,” said Evelyn as she picked a wine-coloured shade of lipstick and set it on her vanity table.  
  
“You should put it on and let me see,” came the voice of the one who entered the room.   
  
That was not Helena’s voice and Evelyn looked up sharply at the mirror only to see Sherlock Holmes standing behind her. He was dressed to the nines, in the sharpest tuxedo she had seen on him yet. His bow tie was immaculate and every part of his suit was pressed to perfection.  
  
“Hello again,” he said with a most charming half-smile. “May I?” he asked, gesturing to her bed.   
“Of course…” Evelyn replied, flabbergasted as Sherlock Holmes sat himself behind her on the edge of her bed.   
“I don’t profess to be an expert on coiffures,” he said, “But I may just have a trick or two up my sleeve.”  
“Oh?” said Evelyn, turning to face him, a slow smile appearing on her lips, “You really can do everything, can’t you, Mr Sherlock Holmes?”  
  
Seeing the smile on her face, he reciprocated with an irresistible one of his own as he gestured for her to turn back around to face the mirror. He then got up on his feet again and moved right behind her.   
  
“Now, let’s see…” he said softly.   
  
Sherlock placed both his hands on the sides of Evelyn’s head, slowly and gently combing her hair with his fingers down the sides of her neck. She could feel his knuckles graze her skin ever so slightly and it made the blood rush to her skin. The instant spike of heat did not go undetected by Sherlock, who merely smirked to himself as he continued to play with her hair. His lifted his hands and again, placed them just where her temples where.   
  
“You look good with your hair up,” he whispered, leaning into her.   
“Do I?” she breathed.  
“Absolutely,” he continued, slowly pulling her hair back into a smooth ponytail, “It shows off your neck, which I happen to enjoy,”  
“Then I’ve picked the right dress,” she said, catching his eye in the mirror.   
“You should put it on and let me see,” he repeated, a little hint of mischief in his voice, “Or not…”  
“Not…let you see?” Evelyn teased, as she watched him in the mirror, mesmerised.   
  
Sherlock laughed and in a few expert twists, had done up her hair into a perfectly tight up-do. He reached for a few pins he saw scattered on her vanity table and put them in. When he was done, he leaned in again to plant her a soft kiss on her now exposed neck.   
  
“Not put it on…” he whispered, making sure their eyes locked in the mirror.  
  
They were interrupted when Evelyn’s intercom buzzed suddenly. Displeased, she slammed the speaker button and quite nearly growled into it.   
  
“Yes?!”   
“I’m sorry, Miss, Mr Holmes arrived early to call on you and I told him to wait in the sitting room but now it seems he’s gone and I…”  
“It’s fine, Helena,” Evelyn interrupted, “Carry on with whatever you were doing.”  
“Yes, Miss Lanc—“  
  
Evelyn turned the intercom off before the poor housemaid could finish her sentence. Taking a deep breath, she stood up from her dressing table and angled her face to admire Sherlock’s handiwork.   
  
“There really is nothing you can’t do,” she murmured, touching the professional-looking up-do.   
“I like to learn a bit of everything,” he said, now walking towards the settee with her dress strewn across it.  
  
Sherlock reached for her lavish dress and brought it to Evelyn, holding it in front of her.  
  
“Are you going to put it on?” he asked her, with eyes sparkling.     
“That depends on what you want to see…” she murmured, taking a step towards him.   
  
The corner of Sherlock’s lips lifted into a sly smile as he placed the dress down on the bed beside them. He then slipped his hands around her waist and slowly kissed her along the side of her neck, making sure to keep a second interval between each kiss. The interval was to build anticipation and from the way her hands wrapped around him in greedy reciprocation, he was succeeding. When his lips reached the edge of her jaw, she did exactly as he had hoped, shifting her neck from him so that she could kiss him, catching him squarely on the mouth. When her hands reached for his face, he tightened his arms around her on cue, which increased the feverishness of her kiss. Once again, he measured his heartbeat against _her_ frantic heartbeat, which he could feel through her robe. As long as his was steady, he knew he was doing fine.   
  
When she finally pulled away from him, she pushed him, such that his knees hit the back of the bed, causing him to buckle and collapse right where she wanted him. Sherlock had not understood that he had overly-succeeded in his plans, which resulted in her rather unexpectedly rough reaction, catching him off-guard.   
  
Before he knew it, she had crawled atop him, sitting astride his body. Her thighs peeked out from the silk robe as they pinned him in place. She was just about to pull the sash off her robe when his hands reached out to stop her. His mind had to work now on a dangerous mix of human instinct and the speed of his memory. He made the decision to distract her from disrobing by pulling her down towards him for another kiss.   
  
When they kissed this time, however, Sherlock now began to find it difficult to concentrate. As he went further into his mind to formulate a new plan of action, the mind seemed to detach from the body. In his frantic search through the rooms of his mind as to what to do, his breathing began to lose its regularity as his concentration diverted from his body. Only instinct was left. His hands now _wanted_ to hold her and wanted to feel the skin beneath the robe. It was a strange irony that the more he focused on thinking, the less control he had over his body, and his restraint started to slip.  
  
Evelyn pulled away from his kiss and this time _she_ kissed him along his sharp jaw line down to his neck. Her fingers reached for his bow tie, yanking it loose and slipping it out from his collar. Before he even noticed, she had undone the two buttons at the top of his shirt. When Sherlock felt her soft lips and the tip of her tongue run along his collarbone, it electrified him. He gasped, eyes opening wide as he stared up at her ornate ceiling in disbelief at what was happening.   
  
Suddenly, Evelyn stopped and sat up, her wisps of her formerly neat hair falling around her face in disarray.  
  
“You…are… _delicious_ ,” said Evelyn, the words dripping out of her mouth like honey.  
  
Sherlock blinked rapidly as he tried to calm the heartbeat that threatened to break through his ribcage. His mouth was still parted from his ragged breathing. Whatever thoughts he might have tried to collect as he searched through his mind now completely evaded him, as though he had dropped them from the top of a tall flight of stairs.   
  
“I…We… The opera…” he stuttered, trying to gather himself.   
“I like _Turandot_ ,” said Evelyn, smiling deviously, “But I can miss it, you know…”  
  
Slowly, Evelyn moved her hand towards Sherlock’s face, her hand poised just at the side of his face, above his right cheekbone. Gently, she ran her fingers across the skin at the peak of his cheekbones, gliding them across.   
  
The moment she did so, the moment her fingertips even touched that part of his face, Sherlock’s mind and body swum back into unison, clicking into place. The only reason it did so was because at that exact point of contact, his mind and his body remembered only one thing.   
  
_Molly_ , he thought, collecting himself.   
  
He reached for the spot that Evelyn had caressed and shut his eyes, remembering the instant absence he felt when Molly’s hands left his face.   
  
_Molly_ , he repeated in his mind.   
  
When he registered her name in his mind, it was as though a command had been uttered. His body automatically disconnected every sensation it had with the body that lay on top of him. The only thing that registered on his skin was the gentle touch of Molly’s hand on his face that night in the cab. As he meticulously removed every last sensory memory of his contact with Evelyn, Sherlock recalled, more vividly than ever, how he had held Molly’s hand in hospital, how he had kissed it and how he had wanted to kiss it.   
  
That was more than desire. That was more than the kicking in of hormones and the escalation of endorphins. That was, and Sherlock could scarcely believe it, _sentiment.  
  
_ “Evelyn,” he said softly.  
“Hmm?” she murmured in response, as she placed both hands on his chest.  
“Let’s…leave this for later,” he said, finally getting back in the game.   
  
He sat up, and remembered to kiss her once more on the side of her neck. With his face close to hers, he whispered to her, telling her that they _did_ have to go to the gala but promised that this was just a little _amuse-bouche_ for things to come later.    
  
“That’s a clever little way to put it,” she said, biting her lip. “My mouth was certainly very amused…”  
  
Sherlock laughed and tapped her playfully on the nose, then traced his finger down her neck, stopping just at her sternum that lay exposed in her rather revealing robe.   
  
“I look forward to keeping it…amused,” he remarked flirtatiously, now tracing the shape of her mouth with his fingers.   
  
Gently, he nudged her off him and she reluctantly complied. He retrieved his bow tie and looped it back round his collar. Sherlock never forgot to keep in constant contact with her, always letting his hands linger around her waist or on the small of her back. With one last peck on her lips, Sherlock headed for the door. Before he left, he gave her a wink.  
  
“Get dressed. We have a long night ahead,” he said, “…especially after the opera.”  
  
With that, he exited her room and shut the door. Evelyn sank dizzily into her seat and buzzed for her maid.   
  
“Helena?” she said, “I need you to come in. My hair is a frightful mess...”

* * *

Outside, in Evelyn’s sitting room, Sherlock took a few moments to run through what had just happened and to properly compose himself. Thankfully, the maid had left him a glass of ice water from before and he gratefully finished it in one shot. As his wits returned to him, the first thing he did was to text his brother.   
  
_Not the bedroom_.   
_But I’ll need a second look to be sure._ – _SH  
  
A second look? What happened?   
Cat got your tongue? – MH  
  
You can say that. – SH  
  
So a second attempt? – MH  
  
Definitely.  
Though I doubt the bedroom.  
But we will see what the Fat Lady reveals. – SH  
  
I agree.   
Inform me once you’ve reached The Lair.  
We are this close to breaking through it. – MH  
  
The Fat Lady will sing. – SH  
  
And I certainly hope you’ll pay attention.  
We cannot afford anymore second attempts. – MH  
  
Time is our enemy, etc. – SH  
  
Don’t be smart And why are you still using this phone?. – MH  
  
_ Sherlock rolled his eyes at his brother’s last exchange. If he only he knew what he had to go through to get here. Intelligence was not what got him this far with the Evelyn case. It was tolerance.   
  
He looked carefully round the room and strained his ears to hear for people. Silence. Evelyn was still going to need a while. Sherlock could not let Evelyn see this particular mobile phone he was using. This was his personal phone, not the ‘new’ one which Mycroft had informed her about. This personal phone was the one that had supposedly gotten lost in the Thames. The ‘new’ phone and the ‘new’ number that Evelyn had been given were so that they could track all his movement and contact with her. This new phone was also the phone which, via a unique encryption application, Sherlock could transfer any photographs or data regarding Evelyn’s operations to his brother. This was a precaution should Evelyn ever get her hands on it.   
  
This personal phone, however, the one he was holding right now, he was to leave at home. Mycroft strictly warned him not to take it with him, especially if was dealing with Evelyn. However, Sherlock could not bear to. The reason being the message inbox he had just opened that had not seen any new messages.  
  
_I shouldn’t like to lose you either. – SH  
_  
That was the last message in that inbox. After that, there was nothing. There was no more word from her and it plagued him. Had he not been occupied with Evelyn Lancaster and her network, Molly’s silence would have driven the detective mad. Of course, he dismissed the madness as a sort of heightened state of generic worry. She had been hurt, endangered, hidden and was now released back into the world. Sherlock remembered rationalising his care for Molly on the pretext that she was vital to his work. Caring for her _was_ necessary. After all, she was indispensable.   
  
Mycroft promised Sherlock to keep his eye on her, even when she left his establishment. For as long as Evelyn Lancaster prowled around, Molly would always be at risk, however tiny. With Mycroft keeping an eye on Molly, she was probably going to be as safe as the Queen. Yet, Sherlock could not rest when it came to the pathologist. In between detective work and tracking Evelyn, thoughts of Molly would flit in. How was she doing? Was she going to start work straight away? What was she going to be working on now? How was that research paper of hers? Did Dr Wright have new projects for her?  
  
Sherlock was just shy of breaking his brother’s rules and sending a text to Molly when he heard the sound of high heels coming down the corridor. Quickly, he slipped his personal phone back into an inner pocket of his jacket and composed himself for what was going to be a rather busy night.   
  
“I preferred your coiffure…” Evelyn said, as she emerged from the corridor into the sitting room. She paused at the entrance and spun elegantly around for Sherlock to survey her. He gave her a smile and gallantly stood up.   
  
“It does nothing to affect how divine you look,” he remarked.  
“You’re quite the charmer, aren’t you?” she said with a laugh as she walked towards him.  
“There are so many who compete for your admiration, Evelyn,” Sherlock replied with a twinkle in his eyes, “I am merely joining the race, in the hopes that I succeed.”  
“For a detective so astute, you are quite the fool sometimes,” she said, linking her arm with his, “There is _no_ race, as far as I’m concerned.”  
“Well, race or no race,” he continued, “You certainly are worth fighting for.”  
  
His words brought a smile to her face. Together, they left her abode and waited downstairs for their car for the evening. As a sign of Mycroft’s gratitude for them going on his behalf to the gala, he had sent for a rather smart-looking automobile to take them around for the evening.  
  
“Very nice,” Evelyn remarked, raising one eyebrow.  
“I didn’t think this would impress you,” said Sherlock, opening the door for her.   
“I am a rich girl, Sherlock,” she said, as she slowly got into the car, “But your brother is genuinely something else.”  
“I cannot deny that,” he replied with a laugh, carefully shutting her door.  
  
They were just a traffic light away before the entrance of the Royal Opera House when Sherlock reached for Evelyn’s hand, holding it in his.  
  
“Yes?” she asked, turning to him with a smile.  
“Just so you know, there’s going to be a lot of press… You know how these red carpet gala type things are…”  
“I have been to a few in my time…” Evelyn teased.   
“Well, I just hope they’re ready for us,” he said, tightening his grip on her hand.  
“I imagine it might be quite the riot…” she said with a laugh.  
“I’m sure you’ll take care of me.” He said with a smirk.  
“You’ll survive, Sherlock.” She said, “Just hold my hand. And _walk_. Smiling nicely helps too.”  
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, bringing her hand up to his lips for a kiss.   
  
It was more than a riot. The press had gotten wind of the famous Evelyn Lancaster arriving to the opera with the infamous Sherlock Holmes. The moment their car showed up to the red carpet that led to the building, they could hear the pandemonium outside. Sherlock was genuinely uncomfortable, but he had a job to do. He took a deep breath and got out from his side of the car, ignoring the calls for his name and those aggravating camera flashes. He walked briskly over to Evelyn’s side of the car, opened her door and helped her out. The moment their hands touched as he assisted her, the frenzy reached fever pitch.   
  
Evelyn, an expert in these situations, merely slipped her arm into Sherlock’s as they made their way up to the building. She would nod and smile to her general left and right, not focusing on any particular camera or journalist. Sherlock did the same as he maintained a smile, keeping his eyes forward and ignoring the chaos around him.   
  
“You seem nervous,” Evelyn whispered to him, as they neared the entrance.   
“Do I?” he said, with a knowing glint in his eyes.  
  
Suddenly, he unlinked his arm from hers and instead, wrapped his arm around her waist. He looked at her slightly stunned expression and gave her a grin before leaning to peck her gently on the cheek. He carefully took pains to let his kiss linger a little longer on her skin, ensuring every one of those annoying camera flashes got the shot he wanted them to have.   
  
“What was that for?” she asked him.  
“I was nervous,” he answered with a smile, “Trying to calm down.”  
  
Evelyn laughed and let him lead her on the last stretch of red carpet before finally escaping the mayhem outside. 

* * *

Molly had taken a shower and quite missed the luxurious bathroom she had been given in the medical suite Mycroft had provided her. Her life was to return to normal. No more secret car rides in cars with tinted windows and security personnel everywhere. It was nice to feel like Molly Hooper again, and live like Molly Hooper again.   
  
“But it really was a great bathtub,” she said with a sigh as she sank into her bed. She popped her laptop open and decided to check on the day’s general news. She had gotten into the habit of staying up-to-date with current affairs thanks to her time with Mycroft. She barely saw him, but his work and its influence were everywhere. All sorts of newspapers in every language were sent to his establishment. There were even media rooms where every major news channel of whatever countries Mycroft was keeping his eye on would be playing. His staff would have to make reports and give him constant updates of all the happenings. It seemed the workings of the British Government were rubbing off on the pathologist.   
  
Her laptop was no media centre. All she had were just the local news websites and some other casual sites that just talked about everything. As she scrolled through them, not really paying attention, a large red banner that had the words _Breaking News_ in blinking white text caught her eye. When she saw its title, she was shocked, to say the least. Quickly, she opened a search window and began searching the headline. The results left her at a real loss for words.  
  
_OPERA MY GOD! SHERLOCK HOLMES AND EVELYN LANCASTER MAKE FIRST PUBLIC APPEARANCE AT ‘TURANDOT’ GALA.  
  
SHERLY NOT! EVELYN LANCASTER SEEN WITH FAMOUS CONSULTING DETECTIVE  
_  
_SHERLOCK LOCKS LIPS WITH SOCIALITE AND BUSINESSWOMAN, EVELYN LANCASTER  
  
EXCLUSIVE REPORT! EVELYN LANCASTER: IS SHE HOLMES-BOUND_?  
_  
HOLMES SWEET HOLMES! EVELYN LANCASTER AND HER DETECTIVE DATE!  
  
_ Despite knowing better, Molly clicked on the one that detailed the kiss. The moment the page opened, she was greeted with a full colour photo of Sherlock, his arms around Evelyn’s waist, planting a tender kiss on her cheek.   
  
“Okay…” Molly said quietly herself, shutting her laptop. She left her room and went to make herself a cup of tea. She found the most relaxing herbal tea she could find and made a steaming cup for herself. As she sipped it, she tried to shut the torrent of thoughts that flooded her mind. Everything about Sherlock and Evelyn confused her. However, if there was one thing she was sure about, she was sure that Sherlock did _not_ want anything to do with Evelyn Lancaster. Clearly, however, this media onslaught was proving otherwise. Sighing, Molly downed the rest of her tea and trudged back to bed.   
  
“He can do whatever he wants,” she whispered to herself.   
  
It was a good thing tomorrow was going to be Saturday and Molly would not have work. This was definitely going to be a sleepless night for the pathologist. 

* * *

It was intermission and Evelyn dabbed tissue gently around her eyes as the curtains closed and the lights came back on.   
  
“It gets me every time,” she said, sniffing slightly.  
“I must confess,” Sherlock said, stroking her arm as though to comfort her, “It _is_ rather moving.”  
“Thank you for taking me,” she said, “I did not think you did these things.”  
“I enjoy the opera very much.” Sherlock said, “And like I told you before, a beautiful woman at a beautiful opera, even a man like myself would not be able to resist.”  
“I am starting to believe that now,” she replied with a laugh.  
“There is no need to doubt me,” he remarked with a smile.  
“To be able to kiss me in front of all that crazy paparazzi, Sherlock,” she said, “Even I couldn’t have done that…”  
“Outdoing people _is_ one of my fortes…” he interrupted with a cheeky smirk.  
“I certainly don’t doubt that,” she laughed, “And I certainly don’t doubt you…”  
  
Evelyn reached for his face and gently touched his cheek as she had before. He resisted the urge to flinch when she did that. Instead, as her eyes looked deep into his, he focused on reciprocating, locking his gaze with hers. When the lights dimmed, he gave her a quick kiss on the lips, reminding her of things to come, post- _Turandot_. She grinned at him and even in the darkness of the hall, he could sense the slow warm buzz that was creeping back into her skin. 

* * *

The opera ended with a most grandiose flourish and it had been a marvellous opening night. Thunderous applause filled the air as everyone got onto their feet, clapping away. Sherlock was no exception. He had taken the time to think as the music played and the sopranos sung, so he was mostly applauding in gratitude for giving him the opportunity to do so.   
  
“I know they don’t allow this,” he told Evelyn, leaning into her, “But it is a glorious set and I should like to let my brother know what he’s just missed.”  
  
Evelyn watched in amusement as Sherlock took his mobile phone out and surreptitiously snapped a picture of the night’s soprano who played Princess Turandot. She was curtsying and thanking the audience.   
  
“There, sent,” said Sherlock with a smirk.   
“I will never understand the both of you,” Evelyn remarked jokingly.  
“Don’t worry, neither do we.” Sherlock replied.   
  
As they stood, watching the audience continue to applaud, Sherlock reached for her hand and linked her arm in his.   
  
“Shall we?” he whispered into her ear, “If we leave now we can avoid the press.”  
  
Evelyn nodded in agreement and allowed Sherlock to lead her out. Instead of taking her to the lobby to wait for their car, he made a detour and headed for the elevator that would take them to the car park.   
  
“Where are we going?” she asked.   
“I sent the driver back,” he said, tossing the car keys in his hand, “I thought we should spend the rest of the night in absolute privacy.”  
  
When she heard that, Evelyn’s eyes glistened with excitement. The lift doors _pinged_ open and he took her hand, leading her to their car. Once in it, he turned to her, his eyes sparkling with the same excitement.  
  
“What?” she asked, amused.  
“You…enjoy what I do, don't you, Evelyn?” he asked her.   
“I certainly do,” she answered, “I think you’re marvellous.”  
“Then I’d like to take you somewhere…somewhere I like to go and think…” he told her, leaning slightly toward her, “Somewhere secret that helps my mind work. Would such a place interest you?”  
“Absolutely,” she breathed.  
“I’m sorry I don’t do fancy bars or restaurants but this is a place I’d really like to show you…”  
  
She interrupted him by kissing him, silencing him as her mouth tasted what she had been thinking of all night at the opera.   
  
“Take me there, Sherlock.” She whispered.   
  
With a satisfied glint in his eye, Sherlock turned the keys in the ignition and began to drive.


	14. Chapter 14

Mycroft was sitting quietly at his desk, studying some reports that had just come in when he heard the soft _ping_ of his phone going off. He reached for it and saw that it was from Sherlock. More specifically, it was from Sherlock’s ‘new’ number.  
  
When he opened Sherlock’s message, he saw that it had no text but just a photo attachment. In a matter of seconds, the image downloaded. Mycroft took a look at the photo and a smile appeared on his face. The picture Sherlock had sent was the photo of Princess Turandot curtseying to the audience, after the final act.   
  
“So, the Fat Lady has sung _,_ ” Mycroft said to himself, “Don’t mess this up, Sherlock.”  
  
Suddenly, a knock was heard on the door as one of Mycroft’s assistants came into his office.  
  
“Sir?”  
“Yes?”  
“You might want to take a look at these.”  
  
The assistant handed over a plastic folder that held a few coloured print-outs, clearly printed out from websites. Mycroft slid the papers out from the folder and viewed the contents, one of his eyebrows raised.   
  
“Why would he have done that?” asked Mycroft to himself.  
“Should I send for more security, sir?” offered the assistant.  
“Hmm. I shouldn't worry too much. It might be to our benefit.” Mycroft remarked.  
“Our benefit, sir?”  
“Yes. Despite my brother’s foolishness in matters of the interpersonal, he might have struck gold with this one.”  
“It’s all over the news, sir.”  
“Exactly.” Said Mycroft, looking up at the assistant, “This is his proof that Ms Lancaster can trust him.”  
“I see, sir. So, no action required?”  
“None at the moment. Just keep me updated.”  
“Yes, sir.” Said the assistant, who turned and exited the room.  
  
Mycroft laid the pieces of paper out before him that detailed his younger brother’s most recent sensation. He smirked when he saw all the pictures of Sherlock planting a kiss on Evelyn with his hand cleverly position on the small of her back. He had to give it to Sherlock. This required endurance, and Sherlock was definitely very much in the game. Mycroft was almost proud of his brother. This was where Sherlock excelled, and to be frank, outdid him. Unlike Mycroft, Sherlock’s natural milieu was indeed _wading in_. Mycroft could only hope that Sherlock did not get stuck wading in, or worse, drowned, dragging this entire operation with him.  
  
He wondered, with amusement, how their parents would take to such pictures. Thankfully, they were either in America or in their country house, far too far away from these kinds of sensationalised news to reach them. Still, their mother would have been amused, to say the least. Mycroft did not worry about these photos. They would serve their purpose, and that would be it. The beauty of sensationalism was that its beauty was a fast fading one. Such photos of Sherlock Holmes would not matter to anyone, at least not for long. It might catch their attention, raise a few eyebrows, but it really would not matter.   
  
“Oh,” Mycroft uttered quietly to himself.   
  
Mycroft was not entirely correct. These pictures, this piece of breaking news, they would not matter to anyone. However, he had forgotten Molly Hooper, and Molly Hooper was not _anyone_. 

* * *

Molly sighed angrily as she stared into the darkness of her room. Her anger mostly came from the fact that she was letting Sherlock Holmes bother her. Again.   
  
It was one thing to experience unreturned affection from the man she loved. It was another thing entirely to see him give it to someone else. Molly laughed at herself as these thoughts ran circles in her head. Had she not promised herself not to love him anymore? Had she not promised herself not to imagine anything beyond the lending of hospital equipment and the sourcing of body parts? So what if he had done a few confusingly ‘nice’ things? Had they proven otherwise? Had they proven that a different side to him existed? Maybe. Maybe not.   
  
The frustration was escalating so much that Molly half wished she could cut her own brain out and extract every part that contained _Sherlock Holmes_ from it. She laughed in amusement at the thought of donating her own brain to him. He would probably be more interested in that than her heart. Well, he would never refuse a freshly cut heart, but that was not the sort of heart Molly had wanted to give him.  
  
Suddenly, she heard the buzz of her phone by her bedside. Despite the lateness of the hour, she was pleased at the interruption it brought to her maddening thoughts.   
  
_You’ve seen the news, I presume? – MH  
  
About your brother’s shenanigans at the opera? – M  
  
The only reason I am contacting you at all, Molly, is to inform you that they are not what they appear to be. – MH  
  
I don’t care what they are or appear to be, Mycroft. – M  
  
You said yourself that I read you better than my brother. So take my advice when I say, let those photos not bother you. They are not what they seem. – MH  
  
What do you propose I make of them then? – M  
  
Nothing. – MH  
  
Nothing? They were right. You really are an iceman, Mycroft. – M  
  
All emotions are damaging, Molly. Unfounded ones, in particular. – MH  
  
So I’m being irrational, with unfounded emotions, is what you’re saying? – M  
  
Bluntly, yes. Which is why, you are wasting your effort worrying about something that should not worry you. – MH  
  
Don’t tell me what to do, Mycroft. I’m not in your secret hospital anymore. – M  
  
No, you aren’t. But I promised Sherlock to keep an eye on you. I believe this qualifies. – MH  
  
Why would you promise him that? – MH  
  
Like I said, Molly, the photos are not what they seem. – M  
  
What are you trying to say? – MH  
  
I’m not trying to say anything. I’m merely protecting you, and in doing so, protecting my brother. – MH  
  
I don't see the connection. – M  
  
You will, eventually. Goodnight, Molly. – MH  
  
Goodnight, Mycroft. – M  
  
_ Molly stared hard at her screen and felt a twinge of guilt. After all, Mycroft had been nothing but kind to her. For him to have been sharp enough to contact her about this showed that he had her best interests in mind. Even if they were for the sake of his brother, Mycroft was doing his best to look out for her.   
  
_Mycroft? – M_  
  
Yes. – MH  
  
Thank you. – M  
  
She truly was grateful. It seemed Mycroft’s messages had snapped her out of her never-ending, self-induced madness. The darkness did not seem like it was mocking her anymore as she felt rest slowly take over. Sleep would not evade her tonight. She was not going to let it.

* * *

The adrenalin was pumping through Evelyn’s veins as Sherlock drove them to this mysterious location of his. She noticed the roads getting smaller and smaller with each turn they took. Some were narrow like alleys and had very little streetlights. The darkness increased as the number of cars on the roads decreased. Sherlock stayed silent, keeping his eyes on the road. Driving was not his forte because he felt it occupied his mind unnecessarily. Nevertheless, he was a decent driver.   
  
“Where are you taking me, Sherlock Holmes?” Evelyn asked flirtatiously, turning to look at the detective.  
“I told you,” he said, smiling but with his eyes to the road, “My secret place I go to, to think.”  
“You are an intriguing man, Sherlock,” she murmured, relaxing against her seat.  
“Believe me, Evelyn,” said the detective, “Not nearly half as intriguing as yourself.”  
  
Evelyn could hardly stop smiling from excitement. She had to bite her lip to stop herself.  
  
However, as Sherlock drove on and took winding alley after winding alley, she looked out at her surroundings and felt a strange sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.   
  
“Where _are_ you taking me, Sherlock?” she asked, with a laugh to mask her worry.   
“It’s a secret. _My_ secret.” He said, turning to give her a cursory glance.   
  
Sherlock had already sensed the change in her demeanour from thrill to slight trepidation. When he glanced at her, her look confirmed this and he smiled to himself as he expertly manoeuvred the steering wheel. There was one last turn to make, and when Sherlock swung the car into what looked like an abandoned street, Evelyn had turned quite pale.   
  
“We’re here,” Sherlock said eagerly, stepping out of the car.  
  
When Evelyn got out of the car and took in her surroundings, it took everything in her power not to panic. She knew _exactly_ where she was. They were at the dead end of a tiny street, flanked by the backs of two decrepit buildings. Her mind raced as she wondered why he had brought her here.  
  
“They used to be small garment factories,” he told her, looking up at the eerie brick buildings that towered over them. “Been disused for more than I can remember.”  
“How…fascinating,” she replied, straining to smile.   
“Come on,” he said excitedly, extending his hand.  
  
Evelyn took it and remembered to smile, following him as he led her to this secret place of his. As they walked, she swallowed hard, taking in his route. Even though there were no street signs where they were, she knew exactly what this place was called. She even knew the unit numbers of the disused factories.   
  
“I can’t wait to take you there,” he said, turning to her with almost wild, shining eyes, “It’s not a place I’d take anyone. But you…I think you’d appreciate it.”  
“That’s very…flattering of you to say that…Sherlock,” Evelyn replied. She was desperate to hide how tense she had become as he led her to one of the backdoors of the factory.   
  
“Here we go,” he whispered excitedly.  
  
Sherlock jiggled the door handle and it opened with ease. He led her through this small black door, which seemed to lead to a stairwell. Evelyn did everything she could to mask her discomfort. Sherlock could feel the tension in her wrists and smirked to himself in the dark. Carefully, he led her down the dark stairwell that seemed to go on forever.   
  
When they reached the last flight, it was such a relief to be in a wide, open space again. They had emerged into what looked like a large underground area that opened out to an underground canal. Sherlock let go of Evelyn’s hand and quite literally skipped to the edge of the concrete where it met the canal.   
  
“I’ve not brought anyone here before, Evelyn,” began the detective, as he stared at the slow-moving black water in front of him. “Not many people would be willing to come here anyway. They would all automatically assume I was taking them to a sewer.”  
“It’s a bit…too large to be called…a sewer…I think,” she said, keeping the smile in her eyes as she walked over to him. She slipped her hand in his, trying to keep her cool, pretending this place meant nothing to her. Sherlock turned to look at her and made sure to smile.   
  
“This is my secret lair, Evelyn,” said the detective, spinning her around as though they were doing a waltz, “This is where my brain _really_ spins.”  
“Is it?” she said, managing to laugh as he twirled her into his arms.  
“I come here to think because I know that nobody could possibly know where this is.” he said softly. “I like my solitude when I’m on my cases.”  
“So that’s the secret of your brilliance, is it?” said Evelyn, looking up at him with a smile, “Solitude?”  
“Absolutely. And this place offers it to me.”   
  
Evelyn’s mind was starting to go blank from being distracted by her surroundings. It was getting increasingly difficult to make conversation.  
  
“Well, I’m very impressed you managed to find a place like this…” she said.   
“Do you know, Evelyn,” he whispered excitedly again, “There’s another way to get here.”  
“Is there?” she asked, feigning intrigue as she smiled widely at him.  
“From Bart’s,” he said. “The basement below the drop-off areas. Where they deliver supplies. I found it by chance trying to nick some hospital supplies…while running from an orderly.”  
  
He laughed to himself at the memory but from the corner of his eyes, observed her reaction. Evelyn laughed politely along, but he could see from the stiffness of her smile and the curious darting of her eyes that she was uneasy. Her uneasiness pleased him. It was his tracking device, his gauge for how warm he was to what he was really looking for. Sherlock needed more reactions from her. She was the only one who held the information he needed, and he was going to lure it out of her.   
  
“So, Evelyn…” he said softly, “What do you think of this place?  
  
Sherlock kept her hand firmly in his, drawing circles on the skin of her wrist with his thumb. Contact was very important. It served two purposes, it always kept her slightly distracted, and it gave Sherlock access to her true reactions to situations.   
  
Evelyn’s eyelids fluttered a little too many times as she quickly put on another smile. Gazing around this large, dark space around them, she took a deep breath and turned to Sherlock, keeping the delight in her eyes.   
  
“It’s not a fancy restaurant…” she said, “But that’s why I like it.”  
“You do?” Sherlock replied, unusual exuberance in his voice, “Well, I’m glad I brought you here then.”  
“So am I…” she said, lying through a forced smile.  
  
As Evelyn continued to survey the place, gazing in supposed wonderment at this dark lair of Sherlock’s, the detective kept his eyes on her, following the tilt of her head and the direction of her gaze. Despite her scattered looks of wonderment, eyes darting around the entire place, he noticed that her eyes kept flitting back to one particular area. He casually followed her lingering line of vision to the brick wall beside them. From what he could see, there was nothing unusual about it. It was just row after row of old, faded bricks. Some of them had gathered little bits of moss from the rather damp air. They were next to an underground canal, after all. Sherlock could clearly see that she was looking around as though the place was new, faking interest. However, her eyes definitely deceived her. There was something about that brick wall, and it just might be what Sherlock was looking for.  
  
There was no turning back now. Sherlock decided to push his luck, hoping to push more signs out of Evelyn. Without warning, he pulled her sharply to himself and kissed her. Her eyes widened in shock before relaxing into his kiss.   
  
“What was that for?” she whispered, smiling as their lips touched again.  
“I was a little jealous…”  
“Jealous?” she remarked with a laugh.  
“Yes, I noticed you kept looking at the wall and I got jealous,” he said, with a charming smirk.  
“Don’t be silly, Sherlock,” she said, chuckling nervously, placing a hand on his chest.  
“Let’s look at it together then,” he teased, grabbing her hand, “I want to see what this wall has that I don’t.”  
  
With her hand firmly in his again, he strode over towards the brick wall. The couple stood there, both staring straight at the wall in front of them. If they had not been in this strange open-air basement of sorts, they would easily have passed off as a couple admiring artwork at a gallery.  
  
“What does this wall have that I don’t?” he asked, mockery in his voice as he turned to look at her.  
“Don’t…don’t be silly…you,” she said. Her laughter was hesitant, forced.   
  
Turning back to the wall, Sherlock shocked Evelyn by almost bellowing at it, repeating his question.  
  
“What do you have that I don’t?” he exclaimed, only to laugh heartily afterwards.  
  
He kept his eyes firmly forward, to prevent her from turning to him. As he fixed his gaze onto the wall, Evelyn could not help but follow suit and kept her eyes forward. When she did so, he observed her from the corner of his eyes and tried to catch where her line of sight would fall. From his well-honed peripheral line of sight, he caught Evelyn’s. Sherlock saw that her eyes constantly rested at a particular patch of bricks that looked greener than the rest, almost completely covered with a layer of moss. His window of opportunity was short. As swiftly as he could, he made a mental note, counting this particular section of bricks as eight bricks horizontally, starting from the edge of the underground canal and fifteen bricks up.   
  
Sherlock was certain he had found what he was looking for. However, he wanted to push it just a little further. Wanting to see how much more of a reaction he could garner, he began acting the fool. Still keeping with his ‘wall envy’, he deliberately yanked Evelyn forward with him as he stood closer to the brick wall.   
  
“Why did you keep staring at this wall, hmm?” he murmured, as he toyed with her fingers in his hand.  
  
Suddenly, Sherlock dropped her hand and walked right up to the wall, right where the suspicious green patch of bricks were. He let his fingers casually run over random sections of the brick wall, as though studying it. When he reached the section her eyes had lingered on, he let his own fingers linger there, but not before turning to catch a quick glance at her. Evelyn had not said a word and she looked like she was holding her breath as the detective continued to perplex her, running his hand over the brick wall.  
  
“Lucky wall,” he said, turning to smirk at her. He had pushed enough buttons and had all the information he needed from her here.   
  
Sherlock had impeccable timing when it came to gauging people’s limits. It seemed Evelyn finally got herself together and scrambled to get them out of here. She could not let him be here any longer. The fact that she had let him lead her here was cutting it far too close. He could almost see the cogs in her own head spin as her eyes shone right at him.  
  
Without any warning, it was Evelyn’s turn to pull the detective in for a kiss. She needed to distract him and grab his attention away from the brick wall. Grabbing his arm, she yanked him away from the wall and pressed herself to him, kissing him hard and feverishly. It was as though she was releasing herself of all the pent-up tension from having him brought her down here.   
  
As she kissed him, and dragged him away from the wall, Sherlock was certain he had gotten one step closer to unlocking the lair. Mycroft was going to be pleased.  
  
“You need to stop teasing me like this, Sherlock,” she whispered to him after their lips parted.   
“What do you suggest I do then?” he answered, his eyes dancing from an excitement she misunderstood.  
“Take me back,” she said, leaning against his chest, “And let’s finish what we started earlier…”  
  
Sherlock nodded and grabbed her hand, leading them both out from the underground hideaway. As Sherlock put the key into the ignition, he could hear Evelyn sigh quietly with relief when she sank into her car seat. The corners of his lips lifted as he realised he was only one key away from unlocking the final piece of the puzzle for Mycroft. Once this was over, he would never have to go through any of this with her again. No more physical contact, no more useless banter, no more empty praises, and no more _kissing_.


	15. Chapter 15

When they were back at Evelyn’s, she was back to her normal self again. She had panicked that Sherlock had found her lair, and she was puzzled that she had never noticed his presence there before. However, he clearly used the place to escape the world and nothing more. More importantly, her secret remained safe, for it did not seem that he realised anyone else went down there. He seemed convinced it was solely his hideout. With that knowledge, Evelyn could breathe properly again.   
  
“Would you like a drink?” she asked him.  
“What have you got?” he replied, sitting himself down on her elaborate sofa.  
“Everything,” she said with a laugh.  
“Whatever you’re having then,” he said, winking at her.   
  
Evelyn headed to her room first and buzzed for the maid.   
  
“Ms Lancaster?”  
“Helena, get the Krug 1928 for Mr Holmes and I.”  
“Certainly, Ms Lancaster.”  
  
Tonight warranted the best champagne. She had been looking for an occasion to pop it open and tonight seemed the perfect night. Evelyn examined herself in her reflection and smiled, satisfied. Unzipping her gown, she stepped out of the glorious green satin and slipped her lavender silk robe back on.   
  
“Hair up or down…” she whispered to herself as she studied her reflection.  
  
Remembering that Sherlock himself liked her hair up and had put it up for her himself, she left it as it was and returned to join him in the living room.  
  
“Sorry, I decided to slip into something more comfortable…” she said, strolling into her sitting room when she noticed the detective had disappeared.   
  
“Sherlock?”  
  
Evelyn looked around her and the room was indeed empty. She turned around and walked slowly back down the corridor that led to her rooms to look for him. He certainly could not be in her bedroom, for she had just come from there. Quickly, she popped into her bedroom and buzzed the maid again.  
  
“Helena.”  
“Yes, Miss Lancaster?”  
“Did Mr Holmes ask to use the toilet or something?”  
“No, Miss. I’ve not spoken to him at all. I’m still preparing the drinks.”  
“I see.”  
  
Had he disappeared from her apartment? Surely he would not dare to. If she found out this whole evening had been a fraudulent affair she would actually shoot him. She did keep a gun in her room. She had one in every room, in fact. Evelyn was positive he was still in her apartment. He had no reason to simply bolt off like that.   
  
Sherlock knew he had approximately four minutes, six, if he was lucky, to search the study. After quick, furtive peeks into the rest of the rooms in her apartment, he could tell that he did not need to bother with searching those areas. The final room, the study, had proven to be it.   
  
“What am I looking for?” he whispered to himself, his head turning sharply, left and right, his eyes scanning the place up and down.   
  
“Information, information, where would I keep my information…” he muttered to himself. Options flashed through his mind as images of hard drives, laptops, CDs, thumb-drives presented themselves in his head. He walked over to her desk and studied it. There was a laptop sitting there. Opening it quickly, he saw some unfinished email drafts to hospital shareholders and a list of fundraising events to be held for St. Bart’s. Clearly, he was not going to find anything there. This was Evelyn’s ‘day job’ computer. Shutting it back carefully, he sat in her seat, surveying everything before him.   
  
“What might seem out of place here…” he said quietly, studying the room from her vantage point. There were shelves with plenty of files. He was not going to go through those. It did not seem necessary. He could see glass cabinets with a few awards and plaques from all her work at the hospital. There were some decorative items but all in all, it looked like a normal office, a well-kept, luxurious place of work.   
  
“Two and half minutes,” he said, glancing at his watch, “Where can you be?”   
  
Sherlock still was not sure what he was looking for. The leading guess at the moment was a second laptop. Based on what he could see of the first one, she seemed very organised and very communicative, from all those emails she was writing. If he had to look for information pertaining to her secret meetings and the contacts of those present, it would probably be in a laptop. This was a dynamic business she was in, especially with the new turn it had taken that had caught Mycroft’s attention those months ago.   
  
As time ticked mercilessly by, Sherlock’s attention was drawn to a smaller, stand-alone shelf against the wall that stood in an inconspicuous corner of the room. It had stood out because of its position in the room and the fact that it held nothing but a stack of glossy fashion magazines. It was not unusual for people’s offices to be peppered with signs of their recreational habits. Yet, Sherlock was sure that though Evelyn was a woman who enjoyed her fashion, she barely had time for recreational habits. The recreational habits of others, on the other hand, were her lifeblood. Furthermore, it had moved on from the recreational to something far graver. That was why he was here and why Mycroft had decided it was time to intervene.  
  
Swiftly getting out of his seat, he strode to the small shelf and knelt down to examine it. The magazines were stacked horizontally, their spines perfectly aligned. It was obvious someone arranged them with care. They were very pristine despite clearly being handled often. He could see that they were touched frequently but not read. The spines of the magazines had no crease marks from usage. He carefully reached for the top volume and pulled it out. When he slid it out, his eyes noticed the back of the shelf and a satisfied smile appeared on his lips.   
  
“I think I’ve found you…” he whispered, reaching his hand to the back, feeling for what he was sure was the frame of a safe door. “I’ve definitely found you.” He said, smirking to himself.   
  
However, his time was up as he heard the faint footsteps of Evelyn along her carpeted corridor. Immediately, he slid the magazine back to where he had found it and took his position. He sat himself on the edge of Evelyn’s desk and waited for the last few seconds before she was going to find him in there. The door pushed open just as he had timed it and he readied a smile to greet her.   
  
“Sherlock?” she said, her eyes widening to find him there. Evelyn looked quickly around, a momentary flash of worry in her eyes, before composing herself and walking over to the detective perched at the edge of her desk.   
  
“I’ve heard you can do it on a desk,” he said, looking at her, one eyebrow raised.  
  
At his words, Evelyn laughed, mostly from relief, and went right up to him. He wrapped his arms around her as she wrapped hers around his neck.   
  
“I suppose you can…” Evelyn replied with a sly smile, “Is that why you’re here?”  
“What other reason is there?” he said, fixing his eyes on her.   
“Are you suggesting we skip my very expensive champagne, Mr Holmes?” she whispered.   
“No, no, we never skip the champagne, Ms Lancaster.” he replied with wry smile. “We can always reconvene at the desk.”  
  
Removing his hands from Evelyn’s waist, he got up from the desk and led them both out of the study. He had to play this carefully now if he was going to remain a welcome guest for future visits. Sherlock needed to get his hands on that laptop that he was sure was behind the safe. The combination would not be a challenge. The real challenge at this moment, however, was finding a way to end the night. Time was short and he needed to update Mycroft, as well as follow up on the lair at the underground canal.  
  
They returned to the sitting room where a bottle of champagne had been popped and placed in an ornate silver bucket of ice. Two crystal champagne flutes were placed on an equally ornate silver tray.   
  
“Well, that’s lavish…” remarked Sherlock, reading the label on the bottle. He began to pour champagne for them both.  
“A night like this deserves something lavish,” Evelyn replied, settling herself next to Sherlock.   
“A fulfilling night, to say the least,” he said, handing her glass to her.   
“We’ll see about that,” she remarked, a teasing smile on her lips.   
  
Their glasses clinked delicately as they toasted their evening. The champagne was marvellous and proved to be the only genuinely pleasant thing about tonight for Sherlock.   
  
“This is lovely,” he confessed, smiling honestly for the first time all evening.   
“Glad to hear that.” Evelyn replied, leaning to kiss him on the cheek.    
  
They sipped their champagne in silence. Despite how lovely it tasted, Sherlock wanted to be careful with how much he drank. This was not a night to get intoxicated. There was far too much work to be done. Mycroft would not appreciate the delay either. Evelyn, however, had other plans and finished her glass a little too quickly, pouring herself another.  
  
“Enjoying yourself?” Sherlock asked her, examining the slow pink that rose to her cheeks   
“Gorgeous champagne after a night at the opera with a gorgeous and brilliant detective? I’m _absolutely_ suffering...” she teased.   
  
Sherlock laughed and put his unfinished glass down. He sat back in his seat, his mind still spinning to find a way to get him out of here without having to disrobe or be subject to ‘deskwork’. By then, Evelyn had poured herself yet another glass and had downed it in seconds. Her eyes were brightening as the effervescence of the champagne pumped the alcohol through her bloodstream. She gazed hungrily at the detective beside her and set her glass down.   
  
Slowly, Evelyn slid herself across Sherlock, straddling him again like she had earlier. Her legs were tucked on both sides of his lap as her hands snaked around his neck again. Sherlock contemplated downing the rest of the champagne to numb out the sensation of her disturbing proximity but decided against it. Sharpness of mind was the only weapon he had now.   
  
“I can’t wait to have you,” she whispered into his ear as she slowly began kissing him along his neck.  
  
Sherlock shut his eyes and did what he always did. He counted carefully and slowly, measuring his heartbeat against hers. After the slip he had made in her bedroom before the opera, he was very careful to stay as disconnected as possible to whatever she was doing to him. The alcohol was definitely setting in. Sherlock could feel Evelyn becoming more and more unhinged as her kisses intensified. The only plan he had now was to slowly get her to drink more and hopefully wear her out before anything had to happen.   
  
“Aren’t you glad it’s me and not that pathologist of yours?” she murmured, in between her devouring of him.  
“I’ve told you, she is not my pathologist…” Sherlock replied, frowning, while his eyes remained shut.   
“That’s what you say,” Evelyn said with a giggle, “But I guess you made the right choice in the end.”  
“There was no choice to make,” he replied, remembering to maintain contact and so gingerly placed a hand on the small of her back. “Why do you keep talking about her?”  
“Because she’s your pathologist…” said Evelyn, in a slightly intoxicated sing-song fashion, “And I am not anyone to you.”  
“Well, I’m with you now.”  
  
Evelyn sighed as she sat herself up, looking down at Sherlock. He looked back at her warily, his arm still around her. She leaned towards him and this time, kissed him fully on the lips, quite literally taking the breath out of him. Sherlock merely mimicked what she did, moving his lips as she moved hers, moving his tongue where she moved hers. He could taste the champagne on her. Sherlock decided that he much preferred the taste of it from his own glass.   
  
When she pulled apart from him, satisfied from the kiss, she stared down at him again, placing one hand on his chest, while the other loosened his bow tie.   
  
“I don’t like her somehow…” Evelyn said, continuing her spiel about Molly, “She makes you…pay attention.”  
“She doesn’t…” Sherlock replied, slightly exasperated. If sober Evelyn was exhausting, this tipsy version was very, very draining indeed.   
“I should have killed her. I _could_ have killed her… That fool should have put in more of the drug like I _told_ him too…” she muttered as she worked to slip the loosened bow tie out of Sherlock’s collar.   
  
Suddenly, a hand reached out to stop her. Grasping her wrist firmly, Sherlock made sure she let go her own grasp on his bow tie before releasing her.   
  
“What did you say?” he whispered fiercely.  
“What are you playing at Sherlock?” she said with a laugh, reaching for his bow tie again.   
  
For a second time, he stopped her, grabbing her wrists again. His eyes had gone hard as he stared back at her face that flushed pink from the alcohol.   
  
“I need to go, Evelyn.” he uttered, matter-of-factly.   
“Why?” Her eyes widened. “Where are you going?”  
“I cannot stay here. Someone is expecting me.”   
  
Carefully, he shifted himself such that she tipped onto the space beside him on the sofa. She blinked in surprise as she watched Sherlock rise from his seat and slip his bow tie out himself, shoving it into his trouser pocket.   
  
“I’ll see you another time,” he mumbled, “Thank you for the champagne.”   
  
Without looking back, Sherlock strode out of her apartment, leaving a stunned and disappointed Evelyn on the sofa. Her surprise soon turned to suspicion, as her disappointment very quickly turned to anger.  
  
“You think I don’t know where you’re off to, Sherlock?” she said, getting up from the sofa. Evelyn marched to her room and whipped her phone out. “Let’s see who gets there first,” she whispered as she began making calls.

* * *

Sherlock drove fast and somewhat dangerously from an inexplicable anger that rose inside of him. Evelyn’s words rang in his head like taunting at the playground.   
  
_I should have killed her. I could have killed her…_  
  
They wreaked havoc with his mind as her words unlocked very unpleasant memories of how he had found a near lifeless Molly sprawled across her bedroom floor. Evelyn certainly could have killed her. Sherlock was not one to appreciate the foolish, but this fool who had miscalculated Evelyn’s instruction, he was grateful for. Still, he was angry that these memories had been awakened. There was so much to do. This was no time to be musing over his _feelings_. As he raced back to Baker Street, he tried to piece together all the information he had gathered. At every red light, he would text his brother little snippets of information – the confirmation of the lair, the suspicious green bricks and Evelyn’s ‘fashionable’ safe.   
  
_I don't like her. She makes you…pay attention.  
  
_ Sherlock grit his teeth as more of Evelyn’s speech flooded his mind. He gripped the steering wheel so tightly he could have snapped it. There was some truth to what she had said, and this is what perturbed him the most. Molly always made him pay attention. Even more so after she had been poisoned. Though he kept her in the far corners of his mind, only to be taken out when necessary, he found that she would creep out to the forefront of his thoughts. Why was he even thinking of her? It might have been a month since he last saw her, before she was sent to Mycroft’s. So where was the need for her in his thoughts? She was safe from harm, she was out of Evelyn’s radar, at least while Evelyn was sober. There was no need to think of her at all.  
  
“And yet…” he muttered to himself, “You _are_ necessary.”  
  
He made a turn at the junction and chose not to return to Baker Street just yet. The only way to get her out of his mind was to see her. Yes, he would see her, ascertain that she was fine and out of harm’s way, then he could carry on. Sherlock sped decisively to where Molly Hooper lived, determined to see her at least once. After all, she had his empty message inbox to answer for.   
  
When he reached the tiny block of walk-up flats that Molly stayed in, he parked at a random spot at the bottom of the block and raced up the stairs. He saw light peek out from the bottom of her door and smiled. Not only was she in, she was awake. Sherlock proceeded to knock on the door when he saw that the door had not been properly shut. His eyes narrowed as he eased it open gently.   
  
“Good evening, Sherlock.” came a voice Sherlock was not expecting.   
  
Greeting him was the sight of Mycroft seated at an armchair in Molly’s sitting room. His legs were crossed, while he held his mobile phone in his hand. Sherlock stared at his brother, wide-eyed and perplexed.   
  
“What are you doing here? Where’s Molly?” fired Sherlock.   
“She’s not here, dear brother.” Mycroft replied.   
“Why?” Sherlock asked vehemently. There was nothing more infuriating than his brother messing with his plans.   
“Why?” Mycroft repeated, raising an eyebrow.  
“Where have you taken her?” Sherlock asked again, nearly bellowing at his brother.  
“To the safest place you know,” he replied coolly.   
“Why?”  
“Because, dear brother,” Mycroft replied slowly, “Your cracks are beginning to show.”


	16. Chapter 16

The detective paced the flat, frightfully annoyed. For a moment, he did not believe that Molly was gone, and had barged into her bedroom, her kitchen and even her small storage room to see if she was hiding somewhere. However, Mycroft had not lied in the least. He had genuinely taken Molly away again to someplace safe.   
  
“What do you mean _cracks?_ ” Sherlock asked rudely as he sat himself on Molly’s sofa.   
“You have many, Sherlock, which you normally keep very well-concealed.”  
“Don’t start lecturing me, Mycroft.” Sherlock quite nearly spat the words out. “Tell me what’s going on.”  
“I’ve taken Molly away somewhere safe…”  
“I know that.” Sherlock snapped.   
“…because, dear brother, you’re not the only one who’s made their way here.” said Mycroft.  
“What’s that supposed to mean?”  
“It means, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, rising from his seat, “That Evelyn sent her people here, knowing full well you were going to come here.”  
“I didn’t tell her I was coming here!” Sherlock retorted, “I was on my way to Baker Street!”  
“Well, then she certainly knows you better than yourself.” Mycroft said wryly, “That makes for one more person more astute about your feelings…”  
“This has nothing to do with my _feelings_ , Mycroft.” Sherlock said, glaring up at his brother.  
  
Mycroft took a slow, deep breath and fiddled with his mobile phone before sliding it back into his pocket. He watched his brother’s stony expression and sighed to himself.   
  
“Stand up,” Mycroft said quietly.  
“Why?”  
“Sherlock Holmes, stand up,” Mycroft repeated, gritting his teeth. His little brother was starting to wear him down.  
  
With a scowl on his face, Sherlock obliged and rose from the sofa. He eyed his brother warily as Mycroft approached him, standing face to face.   
  
“This sofa that we are both standing in front of…” Mycroft began, “…is right at this window which faces the street.”  
“Yes? And so?” Sherlock muttered.  
“And so we shall remain in this position until Evelyn’s snipers realise that you’ve not come to talk to Molly Hooper, but to _me_.” Mycroft said sternly.  
  
The hard expression on Sherlock’s face began to fade as the gravity of his brother’s words sank in. Mycroft was right. His feelings were getting in the way of things and he realised once more that his actions had once again endangered Molly Hooper.  
  
“I don’t care about the cracks, Sherlock,” Mycroft said quietly to his brother, “Contrary to what you think, I would never judge you on those. Anyway, I barely have the time.”  
  
There was a moment of silence between the two brothers as they stood by the window, their figures well lit from all the lamps in Molly’s flat. For once, Mycroft did not sound like the British Government. Instead, there was a certain warmth to his voice, a sincerity towards his little brother.  
  
“But this particular crack,” Mycroft continued, his voice low and wary, “is the very thing that unhinges Ms Lancaster and you will do wise to keep it concealed until we’ve secured this matter entirely.”  
  
Sherlock, whose back was to the window, shifted slightly so he could see out into the street. Sensing this, Mycroft moved as well, maintaining their conversational position by the window whilst allowing his brother to assess the danger he had missed.   
  
“Two snipers…and three more gunmen surrounding the car…” Sherlock whispered to himself.   
“I never mean to exasperate you, Sherlock,” said Mycroft, “I’ve come here to prevent more unnecessary danger to yourself and to Molly Hooper.”  
“Your tracking of Evelyn’s every move is truly impressive,” Sherlock said, with a small smirk. This was as close to saying _thank you_ as Sherlock would get.   
“She thinks her network is large, powerful…” said Mycroft, “But she is not careful with it, as you and I both know.”  
“Hmm, yes.” Sherlock said with a nod in his brother’s direction.  
  
They continued to stand there while Mycroft occasionally checked his phone for updates on the men downstairs. The gunmen were updating Evelyn on Sherlock’s every move and were going to continue to follow him unless she called them off.   
  
“How long will we need to ‘converse’ before she stands her men down?” Sherlock asked, casually glancing out of the window again.  
“Hmm, I believe she won’t be convinced until she sees you back alone at Baker Street.” replied Mycroft. “She’ll still be curious as to why you and I are meeting at the flat of Molly Hooper’s. But the fact that Molly isn’t here with you, should give us significant chances of her letting this go.”  
“Perhaps we should shake hands or something,” Sherlock said with a laugh.  
“Humorous,” Mycroft replied with a smirk, “We might as well embrace and then she’ll _really_ know something’s up.”  
  
Sherlock turned to his brother, half-smiling in genuine amusement. It always infuriated him how Mycroft always seemed one step ahead of things. Tonight, however, the fury was replaced with real gratitude. Though Sherlock never showed it, Mycroft never needed to see it. After all, pleasantries were never necessary as far as the Holmes brothers were concerned.  
  
“What of the lair?” asked Mycroft. “Since we’re here we might as well talk some actual business.”  
“I suspect their meeting point is somewhere behind that wall. Perhaps there’s a concealed keyhole, some kind of digital lock maybe, or a retina scanner…many possibilities.” Sherlock said.  
“Good. Find out where it is and any information on the next meeting.” Mycroft remarked, “We need to know who’s involved. Lancaster has no idea how large her operations have become. Soon, it will be too great for her to handle and the consequences are going to spill over. This meeting _has_ to be stopped.”  
  
Both brothers glanced out of the window again and saw the snipers pack up and move away. Mycroft’s intel confirmed this and the brothers continued with their discussion.  
  
“I intend to go down tomorrow,” said Sherlock. “It’s less likely to be used in the day. More of a night-time haunt, this underground canal.”   
“And what of her information?”  
“You mean her laptop?”  
“Yes.”  
“I’ll have to see her again. I was very close to getting it. It shouldn’t be a problem the second time, if I play it right.”  
“Excellent. We need that information. Locating the lair is no use without the schedule of these meetings and her list of contacts.”  
“I’ll get them.” Sherlock promised. “I want to close this case as desperately as you do.”  
“Hmm, yes, I must commend you for everything you’ve endured thus far.” Mycroft remarked.   
“You have no idea,” Sherlock said, shaking his head slightly.  
“I do actually,” Mycroft said, “I do have eyes everywhere, Sherlock.”  
“I know.”   
“Be vigilant, Sherlock.” Mycroft warned, “I may not always be there in time to catch you, like tonight.”  
“Won’t happen again.” Sherlock muttered quietly.  
“I certainly hope not.” Mycroft said, turning away from the window.   
  
This was Sherlock’s cue that it was time to leave. Of course, he was still going to be followed but at least he knew Evelyn’s suspicions, whatever they were, were allayed. Although he _had_ come to see Molly Hooper, he could rest in the knowledge that Evelyn could see that he had not. Mycroft had moved Molly in the nick of time.  
  
“Where is she?” Sherlock asked once more, turning to Mycroft.  
“I told you,” Mycroft said with a smile, “The safest place you know.”  
“I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean.”   
“Well, think about it.”  
  
The sound of an incoming call interrupted their conversation as Mycroft picked it up and waved his brother away. Sherlock nodded in acknowledgement and exited the flat. The street surrounding his car looked deceptively empty, but Sherlock knew that once he started the engine, he was not going to be alone on the road.  
  
Despite the relief that washed over him knowing that Molly was safe, he still felt unsettled that he had not seen her for himself. Furthermore, he could not, for the life of him, place any meaning behind Mycroft’s words.   
  
“The safest place _I_ know?” Sherlock asked himself as he drove. “What are you on about, Mycroft?”  
  
The safest place in any world would have been wherever Mycroft Holmes was in charge. That was the reason Molly had been placed in his care in the first place. So, why _his_ safe place now? Did Sherlock even have a safe place? There was Baker Street, his home, but there was nothing safe about that place. Everyone knew his address. Any single person could just break the door down and march up to 221B. Where else was it safe _for_ Sherlock? It certainly was not safe tonight what with three of Evelyn’s stooges following him back to Baker Street. Sherlock laughed at how terribly conspicuous they were in their supposed inconspicuous trailing of him. Mycroft was accurate about Evelyn. She had plenty of people, plenty of resources, but she was definitely not careful with them.  
  
It was past midnight by the time Sherlock parked the car outside the door to his flat. He headed up, knowing full well that Evelyn’s men were watching. He stole a glance at Mrs Hudson’s door and could tell she had gone to bed already. As Mycroft had done so in Molly’s flat, Sherlock turned on all the lights in his own and stood by the window, so they could have a clear view of him. Sherlock sighed quietly at the stupidity of all this. Espionage was all very thrilling but this low-level game of hide and seek and playing pretend proved to be such a bore and a terrible waste of time.   
  
Sherlock headed to his room to change out of his suit into a more comfortable set of clothes with his blue house robe draped over. Walking out to his sitting room again, he made sure they saw that he had changed and was about to retire. He even poured himself a small nightcap and sat at his desk by the window. He was not sure when and if the three men were ever going to be stood down by Evelyn. By this time, Sherlock had decided that he was a little too tired to care. He gulped down the rest of the whisky and got up to go to bed.    
  
As he lay in bed, staring up at his dark ceiling, he thought about what Mycroft had said. He was curious as to where he had taken Molly. It also disturbed him greatly that he could not figure it out. Mycroft could be quite a sickening show-off as well. Clearly, it ran in the family.  
  
“The safest place I know…” he whispered, shutting his eyes to think. “The safest place I know…”  
  
Before he knew it, the answer clicked in place in his head.   
  
“Of course…” he said, eyes springing open as a slow smile appeared on his face.   
  
Quietly, he crept out of his room in the darkness, knowing that no one could track his movements with the lights off in his flat. He did not care now if there were people outside watching or not. The fact that he had not heard from Mycroft and that there were no guns blazing was good enough for him. Sherlock continued to tread carefully down the stairs and walked up to Mrs Hudson’s door. He knocked at it gently and within two knocks, he heard the door unlatch as Mrs Hudson eased it open, smiling.   
  
“Your brother told me not to say a word but to wait for you to appear. Safer this way.” Mrs Hudson said with a smile and her voice hushed.   
“Thank you, Mrs Hudson,” he replied, returning her smile.  
  
Mrs Hudson let Sherlock in and carefully closed the door behind them.   
  
“Where is she?” he asked quietly.  
“The study. I wanted to keep the spare bedroom empty, just in case they came looking for her.”  
“You _are_ marvellous, Mrs Hudson,” said Sherlock, giving her a grateful peck on the forehead.   
“Go take care of her,” she said with a wink. Sherlock could only smile as he made his way to the study.  
  
Sherlock knocked gently again at the study door and waited. He could hear faint footsteps as Molly came to open the door.  
  
“Hello,” she whispered, smiling gently.  
“Hello,” he replied, relieved to finally see her.  
“Good to see you,” she said.  
“May I come in?” he asked quietly.  
“Please,” she said, stepping aside to let him in.  
  
The door was shut quietly behind them as Sherlock sat himself down on a chair by a bookshelf. Molly walked towards the makeshift bed that Mrs Hudson had laid out for her and sat herself there.   
  
“It seems I’m always sleeping on daybeds when I’m at Baker Street,” she said with a laugh. It made Sherlock laugh too as he felt like he could properly breathe for the first time.   
“Don’t make jokes, Molly,” he said, an amused glint dancing in his eyes.  
“Sorry,” she said, with a grin. “But you did laugh this time.”  
“I did,” he admitted, smiling warmly at her.   
  
The pair sat facing each other from across the room. There was an odd mix of uncertainty and a little hint of thrill in the air as they remained in silence. As Molly watched him, she could not help but bite her lip to suppress how delighted she was that he was here. So what if he had kissed Evelyn Lancaster? So what if he did an infinite number of inexplicable things? There was no doubt that she cared about him and it truly was _very_ good to see him.   
  
After a tense night with Evelyn, being subject to a barrage of her affections and a terrifying amount of human contact, Sherlock was running on empty. He had never been more relieved to be in this quiet little room with Molly. She represented order, calm, science and security. He felt safe with her. In a world that infuriated him, she was the closest thing to refuge he could find without having to seclude himself.   
  
“What did Mycroft say when he brought you here?” Sherlock asked, genuinely curious.  
“Well, Mycroft and I were already texting before, about…things, some random bits of news,” Molly said, “So when he suddenly came knocking at my door I wasn’t surprised really.”  
“Did he tell you why he brought you here?”  
“Yes,” she said, looking up at Sherlock, “He said someone thought you were on your way to my flat and that I was definitely going to die if you did find me.”  
“Someone?”  
“Well, you and I both know who that someone is…”  
“Hmm, yes.”  
  
The detective twiddled his thumbs as he thought of something to say. Molly realised she had many questions she wanted to ask. Somehow, however, she still felt her questions did not warrant answers. So Molly stayed silent.   
  
“And this…bit of news, you mentioned…What was it?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.   
“Oh,” Molly exhaled, “Just…you know, gossip and things..”  
“My brother does not gossip, Molly Hooper.” Sherlock said, leaning forwards in his chair.   
“It’s…just…I don't even remember it, that’s how trivial it was…”  
  
Suddenly, Sherlock rose from his chair and went to Molly, seating himself beside her. She felt the warmth of having him beside her and shut her eyes. It was a most pleasant sensation. She did not know, however, that Sherlock felt the exact same way.  
  
“Gossip…trivial…” Sherlock repeated, “It wouldn’t have anything to do with a detective, would it?”  
  
Molly lowered her head and chuckled softly. So he knew as well. Of course, he would. He knew everything, did he not?   
  
“Maybe,” she replied, turning to look at him.  
“Hmm,” he said, frowning, pretending to be deep in thought. “He’s not gotten himself a lover has he? All the gossip papers love a bit of celebrity romance…”  
“You think _you’re_ a celebrity?” Molly exclaimed with a laugh.  
  
Her reaction had caught him off-guard, only to make him laugh along with her.   
  
“I suppose you are,” she said, “Your brother told me not to worry about them.”  
“Why were you worried at all?” he asked quietly.  
“How is it, Sherlock Holmes, that you can guess everything right, but not know anything at all?” Molly said, laughing softly as she shook her head.   
  
Molly’s words made him sit up and think. He could tell that she had been affected by his latest media stunt, but only just realised he could not tell why.   
  
“Thank you for checking on me, Sherlock,” she said softly. Molly reached out and gently patted his hand. “I’m very safe here and Mycroft will let me know when I can return to my flat.”  
  
The touch of her hand startled him as he turned sharply to look at her. He carefully scanned her face, observing the curvature of her cheekbones, the length of her eyelashes and the way they curled. He saw that her lips had a natural hint of colour to them and that her hair was not entirely straight but was slightly wavy.   
  
“You should get some rest,” she said, “I know you’ve had a long day. Mycroft’s told me about some of your adventures.”  
“It’s fine,” he mumbled in reply. “I want to be here.”  
  
Molly raised an eyebrow when he said that. She could not find one reason why he would want to remain in this windowless study with her after a long and tiring night out on a case.   
  
“It’s late, Sherlock,” she said, getting up, “Go to bed. You need the rest.”  
  
When she got up, she walked over to her little side table that Mrs Hudson had provided and reached for her glass of water to take a sip. Turning around, she smiled at the detective who sat like a statue on her daybed.  
  
“Sherlock, _go_ to b—”  
“Molly...” he interrupted.   
  
She carefully lowered her glass to the table and folded her arms.   
  
“Yes?”  
  
The detective got up from where he was seated and walked over to her. He stood so close to Molly that he was absolutely towering over her.  Sherlock grabbed Molly by the arms and looked intently into her eyes. A slight frown of confusion appeared on Molly’s brows as the detective continued to stare at her.   
  
“Molly.” Sherlock began.  
“Y-es?” she replied, an eyebrow raised.   
“Sleep with me.”  
“ _What?_  
   
From her reaction, Sherlock guessed he had said something wrong or socially inappropriate. She merely stared at him, her jaw actually dropping from shock.   
  
“Ah, sorry…” he said, realising, “I forgot its, um…euphemism.”  
“And I supposed I’d forgotten that you’re Sherlock Holmes and would _not_ have intended it to mean that way.” Molly replied with a smile.   
  
He continued to grab on to her, despite his little embarrassing question. Molly felt nothing but amusement at his odd but endearing behaviour.   
  
“So…” he said, dragging the word.  
“So?”  
“Will you?”  
“Yes, of course.” She replied, “If you could please stop grabbing me so tightly…”  
“Oh, sorry.” he said, letting go of her immediately.   
  
Chuckling softly to herself, Molly placed her hand on Sherlock’s back and gently led him to her bed that was pushed up against the wall. Molly sat first and laid herself down, shifting towards the wall to make room for him. Sherlock followed suit, lying down beside her and privately delighted in the comfort of being right next to her. There was such a satisfaction being with her now, after having thought about her for so long. It puzzled him, but it did not bother him. Perplexity was a common side effect of sentiment, but tonight, it was a side effect he was willing to have.    
  
It felt a little strange to Molly for them to be lying down side by side, ramrod straight with shoulders touching. It amused her to picture the sight and she thought they probably looked like mummies laid out in a tomb. Carefully, she turned herself towards him, not touching him, but just facing him. When Sherlock saw that she had moved, he too followed, turning to his side and facing her. It was dark but one of the desk lamps was still on. He could still make out the faint outline of her face and the slight sparkle in her eyes. Molly could see the silhouette of his dark curls framing his face.  
  
“Go to sleep,” she whispered, “You need it.”  
“Yes,” he answered, shutting his eyes.   
  
When Molly saw him close his eyes, she instinctively inched forward and planted a soft kiss on his forehead. It startled him and his eyes shot open. They were so wide that Molly could see them shine from having caught what little light the desk lamp gave off.  
  
“What was that for?” he asked, stunned.  
“Sentiment,” Molly answered, suppressing a smile.  
“I see.”   
  
Neither shut their eyes as they stared at each other awkwardly in the semi-darkness. It was incredible how close they were without actually touching. Both had their hands clutched to their chests and their legs tucked neatly away from each other.   
  
Unexpectedly, Sherlock suddenly moved forward and returned the kiss, giving her a gentle peck on the forehead. It was Molly’s turn for her eyes to grow wide in shock.   
  
“What was _that_ for?” she asked, pleasantly surprised.   
“Science.” he answered matter-of-factly.  
“What?”  
“Newton’s Third Law,” he explained. “Every action has a reaction…”  
“I wasn’t expecting that reaction,” she remarked, amused.   
“Well, I wasn’t expecting that initial action…”  
“That’s because you’re a fool, Sherlock Holmes.”  
“Am I?” he said with a soft smile.  
“Yes.”  
  
Molly reached for one of his hands and held it in hers.   
  
“Now, please sleep,” she said gently.  
“Yes. Goodnight, Molly,”  
“Goodnight, Sherlock.”  

* * *

Outside, one of Evelyn’s men sent word that Sherlock Holmes had returned and was alone at Baker Street. Moments later, after hearing from their boss, the three men packed into their vehicles and drove off.   
  
Evelyn sighed in relief as she lay under her own covers. So he had met Mycroft, and gone back alone. Perhaps she had overreacted.   
  
“He’s alone…” she murmured to herself, “It’s all right, he’s alone.”  
  
The panic she had felt tonight was not acceptable. She definitely could not let this happen again. Granted, he had only gone to meet his brother, but she did not appreciate the insecurity. Turning her lights down, Evelyn sank back into bed and thought carefully. Tomorrow, she would have to do something about that pathologist. Yes, she definitely had to do something. Smiling at the thought, Evelyn finally found some semblance of peace, and drifted off to sleep.


	17. Chapter 17

It did not take long for Evelyn to come up with the perfect solution to her little problem. Yes, that was what Molly Hooper was to her, a little problem that caused great inconvenience. Though this pathologist seemed little, it was this pathologist who posed the greatest obstacle between Evelyn and the detective. She was certainly not going to allow that.   
          
The first thing she had done was to make a few calls to some contacts she had overseas. Someone as illustrious and well known as Evelyn Lancaster had many friends in high places and, in this case, all the right places. There were some calls made to hospitals, and some to universities. Nobody said no to Evelyn. Before her morning was up, she had made the necessary arrangements she needed to be rid of her little problem. All she needed now was to talk to Dr Wright, who was the Head of Pathology as well as Molly’s direct supervisor.  
  
As she made her way to St Bart’s, Evelyn looked out of the tinted windows of the car she was being driven in and smirked to herself.   
  
“Well, it was good getting to know you, Molly Hooper,” she said to herself, “But all good things must come to an end.”

* * *

When Sherlock woke, he found the spot on the bed beside him empty. Sitting up, he looked around the room and saw that Molly had left. The bag she had brought with her was gone. It felt deceptively like morning but Sherlock had slept until it was almost noon. The windowless room allowed none of the natural sunlight in, so Sherlock only realised how late it was when he glanced at the clock on the study desk.   
  
“Mrs Hudson?” he called out, stumbling out of the study.   
“Oh, you’re up at last.” Said Mrs Hudson cheerfully, “I’ll bring you your tea.”  
“Where’s Molly?” he asked her.  
“She left first thing in the morning,” the landlady said with a smile, “Her boss called her in to work urgently so she was out in a jiffy.”  
“So, she just left?” asked Sherlock.   
“Well, yes.” Mrs Hudson replied, “Were you expecting her to stay?”  
  
The detective did not have an answer for that. Muttering to himself, he headed back upstairs to his own sitting room while Mrs Hudson had a little chuckle and went off to make his tea.

* * *

“Sir, we’ve just received this update.”   
  
A neatly suited senior officer from Mycroft’s establishment walked towards Mycroft’s desk and handed to Mycroft the small digital tablet that had rows and rows of correspondence in it. Mycroft took the tablet from his staff and began scrolling through the information. It was a set of data logs that had to do with a specific series of correspondence Evelyn Lancaster had been making. When he had finished reading the said update, he solemnly returned the tablet to the officer and sighed quietly.   
  
“Any action, sir?” asked the officer.    
  
With a quiet exhale, Mycroft clasped his hands together and rested his chin above them.   
  
“I’ll need to think about this.” Mycroft replied quietly.  
“Of course, sir.”  
“I’ll let you know when I’ve decided on a course of action.”  
“Yes, sir.”  
“Keep security tight on Ms Hooper.” Mycroft said. His voice registered a slight strain of worry. “Any movement outside her normal routine must be prevented and reported to me immediately. Otherwise, do not intervene.”  
“Affirmative.”   
  
The man nodded his head politely and left the room. Leaning against his seat, Mycroft began to contemplate what this new information might mean. There were many implications to it and a few possible scenarios that could emerge, all predictable, of course. The balance of probabilities in a case like this was of no difficulty to Mycroft. If anything, his vast mind was designed to work through such situations, for it did seem eerily akin to political conspiracy. Making sense of such mazes and disentangling their webs were Mycroft’s greatest strengths, proving his invaluable worth to the British government.  
  
However, Mycroft, in all his power and capacity, was no god. Although he could calculate and predict the outcome of events, he was in no way able to ensure they were the case. For every fixed element there was its volatile counterpart. While Mycroft could predict most of Evelyn’s moves and track that of Molly’s, the one crucial component of the entire mix was the most volatile one of all.   
  
“Sherlock Holmes…” Mycroft said to himself quietly, “What will you do?”

* * *

Mrs Hudson had set out a pot of tea and a small meal for the detective up in his own sitting room. To her surprise, she found the detective, who never ate, quietly chewing on the French toast she had made while sitting in his armchair, lost in thought.   
  
“Penny for your thoughts?” she asked, wiping her hands on her apron as she sat across from him.   
“Hmm? Sorry?” he said with a start.  
“It looked like you were daydreaming…” Mrs Hudson said with a laugh.  
“Daydreaming?” Sherlock scoffed, “Mrs Hudson, please. Where’s John, by the way?”  
“Out. Nowadays he’s been spending the night at his girlfriend’s place. Seems serious, those two.”  
“Hmm. We'll see.” Sherlock said, wiping his mouth.  
“Well, how was last night then?” she whispered excitedly, leaning across the little table between them.   
“What about last night?” he said, taking another bite of French toast.  
“I thought you were only going to talk to her for a bit, to see if she was all right. At least that’s what your brother told me.”  
“And you believe everything my brother tells you?” said Sherlock, smirking.  
“Don’t be rude.” Mrs Hudson remarked sharply, “Anyway, I wasn’t expecting you to spend the whole night in there. That’s why I asked.”   
“I fell asleep. As did she.” Sherlock said very matter-of-factly.   
“‘Course you did,” Mrs Hudson said with a smirk, “I wonder where you slept…”  
“Mrs Hudson…”  
“You look awfully well-rested for someone who had to make do with the study chair or the carpet…”  
“Mrs Hudson!”  
“I’m just saying, Sherlock,” she said, raising both hands up, “That if you want something, go for it.”  
“How thoughtful of you to say that,” he replied cynically as he reached for his teacup.  
“You never know what will happen, Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson said with a shake of her head, “Before you know it, when you finally realise you want something, it’ll be gone.”  
  
The phone downstairs in Mrs Hudson’s flat began to ring, to Sherlock’s relief. She stood up quickly but not before stopping to address the bullheaded detective one more time.   
  
“The good things in life don’t linger around forever, Sherlock,” she said, smiling at him.   
  
Rolling his eyes, he looked away from her annoying, cheerful face and took a slow sip of his tea. The steam from his cup rose to his face but he realised he could hardly feel the heat. How could his skin possibly be affected by steam when it was already slightly flushed, warm from certain memories?  
  
“Daydreams…” he muttered to himself.  
  
Sherlock hated it most when others were right. Gritting his teeth, he finished the rest of his tea and got up to ready himself. He had a long day of work ahead. It was just the thing he needed to forget the distracting comfort of a certain, recent experience.

* * *

  
_En route to the Lair_ – _SH_  
_Excellent. – MH  
Surveillance still on for The Sparrow? – SH  
Yes, as always. Why? – MH  
It flew early this morning. I did not see it. – SH  
There is no need to worry, Sherlock. – MH  
I’m not worried. – SH  
If there’s any danger, you will be informed. – MH  
Good. _ – _SH_  
  
It was about three o’clock in the afternoon by the time Sherlock Holmes left the flat. The sun and its still rays were bright and harsh, emphasising the time of day. For Sherlock Holmes, it was the ideal time to head to a lair that saw only nocturnal activity. He hailed a passing taxi and hopped in, carefully instructing the cabby. Sherlock could never be sure when Evelyn would send her eyes and ears out again, so he had to be discreet.   
  
Two streets away from where he needed to be, Sherlock told the cabby to stop. Once the black taxi had properly driven off, Sherlock began his walk to the lair. It was odd how buildings looked so different in the day. The two disused garment factories looked far less ominous than they had looked that night. He could properly see their dilapidation now. Somehow, the buildings looked smaller as the full wretchedness of their condition came into view, courtesy of the midday sun.   
  
“Here we go,” he muttered quietly to himself.   
  
Sherlock found the same door and took the same flight of stairs that led him down to the underground canal. Without a moment’s hesitation, he headed straight for the mossy brick wall that had captured Evelyn’s attention. He smirked to himself as he recalled the way she had squirmed. Though Evelyn prided herself to be a lot more self-aware than the common man, Sherlock still found her terribly easy to read.   
  
“Right…eight bricks this way,” he whispered, his eyes counting from the edge of the underground canal, “Then fifteen up.”  
  
His eyes rested on the patch of bricks that seemed a lot mossier than the rest. Only now did he notice that its green was unnaturally even. On closer inspection, he could see it was not real moss at all. The fake moss was an inviting discovery, for it meant his suspicions were right.   
  
“Now, have you got an answer for me?” he said quietly, running his fingers gently over the strange green layer.   
  
Sherlock gently prodded the moss, half-smiling at its odd, almost velvet-like texture. He was a little disappointed that he had not noticed its falseness before. Though to be fair, he had Evelyn to deal with. As he carefully inspected the flecks of deep green material, his eyes picked out a patch with a much lighter density. His fingertips could feel where other fingers had met it, and it became his instruction manual.  
  
“Pressure marks on the tips, slight erosion of the fabric bits around here…” he said, examining the barely noticeable balder patch of green among the entire layer of moss. “What are you hiding?”  
  
Slowly, Sherlock rested two of his fingers on the slightly worn patch of moss and applied gentle pressure. It definitely was not brick under there. Inhaling sharply, he pressed it harder, taking note of the way the surface seemed to spring back against his fingers. He could tell that it was not a fragile surface and could withstand just a little bit more pressure. With greater force, Sherlock pushed his fingers against the patch. This time, he both heard and felt a ‘click'. When he released his fingers, the entire surface of what was made to look like a single brick popped open like a refrigerator door.   
  
“Fascinating…though facile,” he whispered to himself, amused.   
  
Carefully, Sherlock opened the little rectangular door and was greeted with a shiny, steel number pad. It was not difficult to deduce that this was some sort of digital lock. With the right combination or key code, something else would open. Perhaps it was a safe, or the door to someplace else. Who knew?   
  
Sherlock had an inkling as to what it might lead to and so was most eager to find out. The excitement coursed through his veins as he checked off each suspicion that he had proven correct. First the lair, then the brick patch, and then the lock. Evelyn, though resourceful and clever, was no criminal mastermind. It was obvious from first glance what the key code was. This only served to prove Evelyn’s carelessness, and also the fact that the people she worked with were idiots. Sherlock’s gloved hand glided easily across the faded numbers. It was not just the fading that gave it away but the direction of the fading and the oil marks. He could see clearly where fingers had swiped up and down, or left and right, clearly indicating which faded button followed the other.   
  
To his delight, he heard the satisfying beep of the key code agreeing with the system as a green light flashed. However, there was nothing after that. He seemed to have unlocked something but he could not see what it was. After the beep, there was no other movement, no other sound. The detective frowned and stood back from the wall, examining it from afar this time. He noted the position of the number pad and the rest of the wall.   
  
“Hmm, I wonder…” he said quietly, stepping towards the wall again. Carefully, he rested his two palms against the brick wall. With a deep breath, he began to push it to one side, as though trying to slide the wall open. Nothing. He shifted his position and tried to push against the wall. Again, there was nothing. Sighing, he looked back at the number pad.   
  
“What have I missed?” he whispered. “Of course, _of course_. Stupid…”  
  
He had failed to see the flat steel button that lay flushed against the steel body of the number pad. It was hard to spot, what with the glossy black buttons of the number pad above it. He pushed the flat metallic button and he immediately heard the soft groan of gears shifting and something heavy moving. The detective quickly stepped back, his eyes fixed on the wall before him. Slowly but surely, the brick wall began to open, sliding to its left, revealing an actual door. It had a layer of black varnish on it and its knob was a tarnished brass one.   
  
With a proud smirk, Sherlock grabbed the doorknob and twisted it. The first thing that struck him upon entering the room was how it smelt. This was a place that had been occupied frequently by wearers of heavy cologne. This room had seen dignitaries, ambassadors, high-ranking officers and the like. Sherlock was sure of it.   
  
“Who have you been inviting, Evelyn?” Sherlock whispered to himself as he slowly circled the long table that stood in the middle of the room. There was a projector, plenty of computer cables, power points and a small shelf of stationery. It was most certainly a meeting place, and it was _the_ meeting place Sherlock was looking for.   
  
_Lair located. Digitally locked room behind brick wall. – SH  
  
_ As he waited for his brother’s reply, the detective began to notice something worrying. There was not a single piece of information to be found. It was just an empty room, an empty conference room with nothing of consequence. There was no evidence that Evelyn had been here or any of the suspected contemporaries Mycroft had shortlisted. It was simply vacant. There was nothing to see and nothing to find.   
  
_Good. Collect any evidence you may find about participants. – MH  
There is nothing here. Just an empty meeting room. But I know for sure they meet here. I can smell it. – SH  
I applaud your olfactory abilities but I need more than that. Who should we be looking out for? – MH  
There is nothing here. I suspect everything you need is still in her laptop. – SH  
Then go and get it. We need to find out when the next meeting is and stop it. – MH  
You’ll have to send some flowers on my behalf then. – SH  
Understood. What should I put on the card? – MH  
Tell her I’m sorry I left so abruptly. And that I should like to meet her for dinner. – SH  
Consider it done. – MH  
Text me the details. – SH  
_  
Sherlock took one final look at the empty room and sighed in frustration. He made sure to leave the room as it was and walked out, shutting the door behind him and pressing the steel button that moved the brick wall back into place. He tapped the mossy cover of the number pad shut and made his way out from the underground. It was time to face Evelyn once more. Hopefully, this would be the last.

* * *

Molly had had a busy morning. She was called in urgently to work and had been on her feet non-stop. However, it was not work that Dr Wright had called her in for. Despite having called her in first thing in the morning, he had not had the time to see her, for he was busy with some meetings. He had sent word that Molly was to wait for him to send for her. It was only after lunch that she finally received word that he was free to see her.   
  
As Molly made her way to his head office upstairs, rather than at his supervisor’s desk next to the lab, she frowned as she wondered what business he wanted that was so urgent. It was additionally unusual that he should ask to meet her upstairs, at the main pathology department. She knocked quietly at his door and turned the knob only when she heard his voice telling her to come in.   
  
“Dr Wright.” She said, walking towards his formidable mahogany desk in this office she had never been in.   
“How are you, Molly?” he asked, smiling warmly at her.   
“A lot better, thank you.” she answered, returning the smile, “It’s been nice being back at work.”   
“You always were the workaholic, Molly.” Dr Wright remarked.   
“I like it here. And you’re a great boss,” she said sincerely.  
“I appreciate that, Molly,” he said with a grateful nod. “Now, there’s some official business I need to speak with you about.”  
“Yes, what is it?” she asked, curious.   
“This is something that saddens me, personally. But I know it will do wonders for your research and for your career.” Dr Wright began.  
“Saddens you?” she asked.   
“Yes, Molly,” he said, “It saddens me to inform you that St Bart’s…is going to lose you.”

* * *

  
“Sir? You called?” said the senior officer who had been called back to Mycroft’s office.   
“Jones, set up an online meeting with Ambassador Hutchinson,” Mycroft said.   
“Our ambassador to Japan, sir?” Jones asked to clarify.  
“Yes. Tell him this is urgent.”  
“Right away, sir.”   
  
Mycroft shut his eyes and rested his forehead against his hands. He had made the decision that he was not going to prevent Evelyn’s latest course of action. Molly leaving the country might actually be the safest thing to happen to her. Furthermore, if she left at the hands of Evelyn, it would satisfy Evelyn, meaning she would never think to interfere with Molly again. This was a definite advantage. Mycroft was unsure of how his brother was going to take it, but in the grand scheme of things, it truly was the best option. Thankfully, Mycroft had connections in even higher places than that of Evelyn’s. So no matter what Evelyn had in store for Molly, Mycroft was always going to have the upper hand. Or at least he was going to make sure that he did. 

* * *

  
“I don’t get what you mean. I’m not going anywhere.” Molly said, puzzled.   
“Oh, but you are, Molly,” Dr Wright said, with an excited smile. He reached for a large envelope and handed it to her.   
“What’s this?” she asked, taking the brown envelope in her hands.   
“I received it this morning. One of your colleagues from your time in Japan recommended you to work with a team at the Keiō University Hospital. They’re working on the same type of skin regeneration research you’re doing here and they’ve personally asked for you.   
“Wow…” Molly breathed, reading the contract and paper work before her. “That’s…amazing.”  
“It is, isn’t?” Dr Wright said, “I’m really sad to see you go, Molly, but this is a really great opportunity for you. I would be sadder still if I kept you from such a great collaboration.”    
“I don’t know if I should take it, Dr Wright, this is…massive,” Molly said, as she continued to read the documents, “It’s…it’s a five-year contract.”  
“Well, time will fly when you’re having fun,” Dr Wright said brightly, “Consider it, Molly. It is a fantastic offer they’re making.”  
  
Molly pored over the documents as the information sank in. Dr Wright was correct. It was the best thing that had ever happened in her time as a pathologist. She recalled fondly the marvellous time she had working with the team in Japan. Those murders were grisly but their hard work had resulted in the solving of those murders. This contract had everything she would need for an overseas project. It provided all the logistics necessary, it had an attractive paycheck and it was a terribly intriguing area of research. The team here at Bart’s was great, but these were the top-notch colleagues she had worked with in Tokyo. They could do amazing things with the skin regeneration research she was working on. It amused her that the first invitation to work with them had to do with decay and degeneration. Now, this second invitation was to study the total opposite.   
  
“I suppose you’ll need time to consider,” said her supervisor, “Though I don’t see how you aren’t saying yes right away…”  
“Yes.” Molly said suddenly, her resolute eyes brightening. “Yes, I will take this.”   
  
Dr Wright stood from his desk and reached to shake Molly warmly by the hand.   
  
“We will miss you, Molly,” he said, “But I know you will do great things with this opportunity.”  
“Thank you, sir,” she said, “I am very grateful you’d let me take on something like this.”  
“Well, I’m holding onto the hope that you’ll come back some day,” he said with a laugh, “And Bart’s will have its bright spark once more.”  
  
After chatting a little more with Dr Wright, Molly left his office and made her way back to her desk. She was smiling from ear to ear. This could not have been timed more perfectly. Things were getting a little bizarre here in London and perhaps the getaway would straighten things out again. Well, it was certainly longer than a getaway but it had the same effect. This was an escape for Molly. Perhaps it would give her time to clear her head. More importantly, it would give her an opportunity to clear her heart of Sherlock Holmes as well.

* * *

In the taxi ride home, Sherlock Holmes slowly worked out how he was going to ‘reconcile’ things with Evelyn. He had been foolish and stormed out of her flat all because of something she had said. If he had not let himself be so emotionally compromised he would have had the laptop by now. It made him curse himself internally every time he thought about it. Yet, how could he _not_ have been enraged? He had reminded her of the very thing that ignited his utter hatred for her. The fact that she so casually mentioned eliminating a life so necessary and significant to his own sent fire through his veins.  
  
Sherlock suddenly reached for his mobile phone and unlocked its screen. He opened his message inbox and in the list of messages, saw the one with Molly’s name on it. His thumb hovered above it, as he contemplated what Mycroft strongly recommended he did not do – contact her. His jaw was clenched as he tapped on her name, scrolling mindlessly through what few exchanges they had made in the past months. As he flicked his thumb up and down the lit screen, he was interrupted by the soft chime of an incoming message as the symbol of an envelope overrode the screen.   
  
It was a message from Molly. Quickly, he tapped on the little envelope, turning it quickly into text.   
  
_Hey. Where are you now? – M.  
_  
Sherlock Holmes could not explain it, but he felt his pulse race a little as he frantically typed a reply back.   
  
_En route to Baker Street. What’s wrong? – SH  
_   _Nothing’s wrong. But can I come see you there? – M  
Of course. I’m 10 minutes away. – SH  
Great. See you. – M_  
  
The ten minutes were probably the slowest ten minutes of his life. When the taxi finally pulled up to Baker Street, he leapt out of it faster than light. Charging up the stairs, he could see that Mrs Hudson had already let Molly in. For a moment, a wave of panic washed over him as he turned back to check that there was nobody spying on the flat again. Remembering that Mycroft was a lot more vigilant than Evelyn was, he relaxed, reluctantly grateful that his brother was simply _that_ good.   
  
When he finally entered his flat, he saw Molly and Mrs Hudson chatting happily in his sitting room. Mrs Hudson had brought out some tea and biscuits and they were having a lovely time.   
  
“Hello.” Molly said, turning to greet him.  
“Hello,” he replied with a small nod in her direction.  
“I’d better go check on those crumpets in the oven…” Mrs Hudson said, rising from her seat.  
“It was lovely to see you again, Mrs Hudson,” Molly said, smiling at the landlady.  
“Same here, dear.” Mrs Hudson replied with a little wave before scurrying away downstairs.   
  
Sherlock hung his coat and sat on the sofa where Mrs Hudson had been sitting. Molly poured him a cup of tea and handed it to him.   
  
“Thank you,” he said.   
“You’re welcome.” she said, with a quick little smile.  
  
She watched him quietly as he drank his tea. No words were exchanged as they sat across from each other. Molly’s eyes would dart to him, then to the biscuits, to the curtains and then back to him. Sherlock noticed this and set his teacup and saucer down.   
  
“What’s the matter?” he asked, looking at her.   
“Nothing’s the matter.” she said with a shrug.   
“Hmm. If you say so…” Sherlock said, remembering his manners.   
“Though I did come to tell you something,” she said, returning his gaze at last.   
  
Sherlock swallowed nervously. There was something different about the way she spoke and something strange about her body language. He could not tell what it was but he did not have a good feeling about it. Yes, Molly was nervous as she normally was, but she did not fidget as she usually did. Normally, her hands would clasp and unclasp, or she would be fiddling with the ends of her jumper. Though he could sense her nerves, her behaviour was oddly calm. Her hands were placed on her lap, still and relaxed without a single twitch.   
  
“Well, what is it?” he asked quietly, clasping his own hands as he leaned back against the sofa. For some reason, he could not relax either. A cigarette would have been perfect right now.  
  
“Sherlock,” Molly began.  
“Yes?”  
“I’m leaving,” she said, with a blank smile.   
“Leaving what?”   
“London.”  
“Oh?”  
“Yes.”  
  
She cleared her throat, a little unsure as to how to continue. Molly shifted slightly in her seat, her lips tightly pursed as she thought of what to say.   
  
“Was this Mycroft’s idea?” asked Sherlock.   
“No! No…” she said.  
“Then?” he asked. Sherlock emptied his eyes of emotion but fixed them squarely on her.   
“I’ve been offered a research contract in Tokyo,” she said, “And I’ve agreed to go.”  
“So you’re leaving _England_?” Sherlock asked, his eyes widening slightly.   
“Yes. For five years,” Molly said, managing to smile again. “They want to me to work on their skin regeneration research, after hearing about mine.”  
“Do you even know these people?” Sherlock asked, almost scoffing.  
“As a matter of fact, I do,” Molly replied calmly, “They are the same team I worked with when I was called to assist with the case in Japan.”  
  
They reached another ebb in their conversation as the pair of them merely stared at each other. Sherlock recalled their evening together and frowned, puzzled. It confused him that they should separate, just when he was finally learning to appreciate being with her. Surely she felt the same appreciation? Unless, he was mistaken.   
  
“So… you’re just...” he cleared his throat and reached to top up both their teacups.  
“I’m…?” Molly asked, prompting him to finish his question.  
“You’re…” he turned to look out of the window, “You’re just going to go?”  
“There’s no reason I should stay,” Molly replied, matter-of-factly.   
“Bart’s? Aren’t you doing well at the hospital?” he turned sharply to look at her again.  
“Bart’s is fine,” Molly said, looking squarely back at him, “But this is an opportunity of a lifetime.”  
  
Sherlock nodded slowly, processing her words. He unconsciously clenched his jaw as her words sank into him, finding their place in his mind as he sought to find an appropriate response. His mind told him that there was nothing illogical about her choice. Yet, something else inside him made him feel otherwise. There was a small, dull ache in his chest, but the detective chose to ignore it. There was no reason he should disagree with such a logical decision, no matter what he felt. Feelings were always faulty anyway.   
  
“Then you must go.” He said, with a small smile. However, the smile was empty, not touching his vacant eyes in the least.   
“And I will,” she said, nodding and returning his smile.   
“Good luck, Molly Hooper,” he said, extending his hand across their tea things.   
“Thank you, Sherlock Holmes,” she replied, reaching to shake his hand.   
  
They shook hands, firmly and politely, as though making some sort of business transaction.   
  
“I’d better make a move then,” Molly said, standing up, “They expect me in two weeks. I’ve lots of packing to do.”   
  
Molly returned her bag to her shoulder and draped her scarf around her neck. Sherlock stood up as well and proceeded to walk her to the door.   
  
“I don’t know…when I’m leaving, exactly,” she said, turning to face him suddenly.   
“I see.” Sherlock replied, not quite able to return her gaze.  
“So…I suppose,” she took in a sharp breath and smiled up at him, “I suppose, I should say goodbye.”  
  
As Molly waited for a response, Sherlock remained silent, his eyes blinking while his head darted around, unable to settle his gaze.   
  
“Right,” she whispered to herself. She had come to say what she had intended to say and it was time to go. Turning on her heels, Molly made her way out of the door.   
  
Just as she was headed for the stairs, she felt Sherlock’s hand grab her arm, holding her back. Stopping in her tracks, she angled her head slightly, not wishing to face him.   
  
“Molly,” he said.  
“Yes?” She still refused to turn fully.   
“Would you…” he inhaled sharply, “Would you like to have dinner?”  
  
Molly smiled to herself, feeling a familiar surge of emotion overwhelm her chest. With one hand, she reached for his hand on her arm and slowly pried his fingers away.   
  
“No, Sherlock,” she said with a private, bitter smile, “Not tonight.”  
  
With her arm free from his hold, Molly Hooper walked out of 221B and left Baker Street.   
  
Sherlock remained at the top of the stairs, his eyes wide and his mouth open from the shock to his system. Mrs Hudson, who had heard the door shut, came running out of her own flat, only to see the stunned detective frozen at the top of the staircase.   
  
“Oh, Sherlock,” she said worriedly, “Sherlock, what happened?”  
  
At the sound of his landlady’s voice, the detective blinked and regained his composure.  
  
“Nothing.” he answered stoically, “Molly was just leaving.”  
  
He turned his back on Mrs Hudson and entered his flat, carefully closing the door behind him. Slowly, he walked over to pour himself a glass of whisky and sat in his armchair.   
  
“Five years,” he said to himself, examining the copper-coloured liquid in his glass. The detective laughed quietly as he swirled the glass of whisky in his hands.   
  
“I can wait,” he whispered, a half-smile appearing on his face. “I’ve got work to do anyway.”


	18. Chapter 18

It was another late morning for the detective after another late night out with Evelyn. Since he had walked out on their last evening together, he had had a lot of making up to do. The detective had spent about a week doing just that, persistently pursuing Evelyn. Oddly enough, the impending absence of Molly had given him some sense of security. Knowing that she would most likely be out of harm’s way allowed him to focus a little more. He chose to ignore the little stings that would occur from time to time. Feelings were faulty, always, he maintained. He was not going to let himself be emotionally compromised again. Not when they were this close.   
  
Mrs Hudson had heard him stir and already set out a pot of tea and some slices of toast for a little mid-morning sustenance. He walked out of his bedroom somewhat groggily, settling into his armchair and absent-mindedly staring into space. There was nothing that drained Sherlock more than unnecessary social interaction. Having had to ‘date’ Evelyn for close to a week was really taking its toll on him. Such silence in the morning was a very welcome break for the detective, who poured himself a cup of tea and simply savoured this moment to himself.   
  
However, his late morning solitude soon came to a close when the footsteps of John could be heard. Sherlock set his teacup down and looked up, just as John emerged at the doorway to their flat.   
  
“Morning. Everything all right?” said John as he hung his coat up.   
“Everything’s the same here,” Sherlock answered, reaching for a slice of toast.   
“Sorry…been away for a while.” John settled into his chair that faced Sherlock. “You okay?”  
“Fine.”   
“Okay.” John nodded, flipping though the day’s papers.   
  
They sat in silence for a while as Sherlock quietly ate his toast and John casually read the papers. When John was done, he folded the papers back and set them on the armrest.   
  
“If you’re free sometime, I’d like you to meet Mary.” said John, suddenly.  
“Mm? What?” Sherlock had been lost in his thoughts as usual.  
“Mary, my girlfriend.” John repeated, “We’re pretty serious and I’d love if you two could meet.”  
“Is there really a need to?” Sherlock asked, taking a bite of toast.   
“Not a crying need, no. But it would be nice.”  
“I can tell she’s changed your wardrobe several times…you’d never wear a shirt like that,” scoffed the detective, “She enjoys baking, hence the weight you’ve put on and the little spot of icing sugar on the cuff of your sleeve…”  
“Yeah, great, Sherlock,” John remarked with an eye-roll, “But that’s not the same as meeting her…”  
“I can also tell you’re both reasonably happy, having been engaged in a spot of love-making, quite a lot of it, actually— ”  
  
Sherlock’s rather intrusive observation was interrupted by John’s chuckling. He was far too accustomed to Sherlock’s inappropriateness of speech to be offended.   
  
“You know how you always state the obvious, and it’s not really necessary?” John remarked with a laugh.   
  
The detective shrugged and kept quiet, reaching for his tea.   
  
“Well, that’s what you were doing.” John said, “Not very polite, Sherlock.”  
“Then you shouldn’t have brought her up,” Sherlock muttered, getting up from his seat and walking to the window.   
“Speaking of girlfriends,” John said, flipping to a particular page in the papers, “How’s yours?”  
  
In John’s hands was a full, coloured spread of Evelyn’s latest sightings with the socially elusive detective. Their comings and goings had caused quite a media sensation. Evelyn Lancaster had now garnered another name for herself and a new impressive reputation. She was the one who had gotten through to the infamously aloof detective. Their relationship fascinated the masses and it made for great tabloid stories. The detective had his back turned to his best friend as he stared mindlessly at the street below.   
  
“She’s leaving.” Sherlock answered quietly.   
“Sorry, what?” John asked, perplexed.   
“An overseas research project,” Sherlock explained, “Some university hospital in Tokyo…”  
“Research?” John remarked, “When did she ever dabble in research? I thought she was on the hospital board…”  
“On the hospital—” the detective whipped his head round to face his friend, “Who are you talking about?”   
“Your girlfriend?” John said, holding up the newspaper with several photographs of Evelyn and Sherlock, “Evelyn Lancaster?”  
“Good God…there’s more?” Sherlock muttered through clenched teeth. His eyes scanned the several photographs that contained repeated scenes of Evelyn and himself emerging from cars or exiting restaurants.   
  
Sherlock’s reaction was puzzling to John. The detective walked up to him, snatched the paper out of his hand, and began reading the articles, if one could call them that, which accompanied the photographs. John watched as Sherlock frowned and scoffed while reading about himself in the papers.   
  
“They think I’m going to propose…” he uttered incredulously, “All because I was spotted coming out of a Cartier store. Please.”  
“Why _were_ you coming out of a Cartier store?” John asked, curious.   
“An old university acquaintance. He had some concerns about his staff, and a possible embezzlement.”  
“And how was that?”   
“Simple, really. Solved it before tea-time.” Sherlock said, folding the papers and passing them back to John.   
  
The detective resumed his position by the window, quietly staring out of it. John cleared his throat and shifted in his armchair. He was curious as to how Sherlock had not quite answered his question, or at least not in the way he was expecting. For starters, it seemed that on the topic of girlfriends, Sherlock had someone else in mind.   
  
“Sherlock?” John asked.   
“Hmm?” The detective did not bother turning round.   
“Who did you think I was talking about just now?” John asked, slowly and carefully.  
“What were you talking about just now?” Sherlock replied, obviously having forgotten what he deemed irrelevant conversation. John sighed and explained.   
“I was asking about your girlfriend, Evelyn Lancaster, but you didn't refer to her,” John said, “Who did you think I was asking about then?”  
  
There it was again. A small sting, or sometimes, a dull ache, that crept into his system. Sometimes he would feel it in the very centre of his chest. Sometimes it would feel like a weight in his heart, or a kind of bitterness in the pit of his stomach. John waited for Sherlock to respond, but was only met with silence. The detective took a sharp breath before returning to his own armchair.   
  
“I don’t know,” he mumbled, reaching for his tea, “I’d deleted that entire conversation…”  
“Oh…my…God…” John whispered, amused. “Mrs Hudson was right.”  
“Wonderful. Now you’ve taken to gossiping with the landlady,” Sherlock muttered, his voice muffled by his teacup.   
“She told me Molly had spent the night here,” John remarked with interest, sitting up and moving to the edge of his seat.   
“Yes, she did. While you were out again for the umpteenth time.” Sherlock replied, rolling his eyes.   
“So why is Molly leaving?”  
“I told you,” Sherlock said, setting his teacup down, “Research project.”  
“Yeah, okay,” John said, “But _why_ would she leave?  
  
There was a pause. It was a question that made Sherlock feel like his lungs were throwing themselves against his ribcage. It felt this way only because this was a question Sherlock himself had desperately wanted to ask. However, he shoved it away into the deepest recesses of his mind. As far as he was concerned, everything about Molly moving away was logical and in everyone’s best interests. His question would have been a spanner in this perfect system of logic. Sherlock would rather die than be the one to have thrown the spanner.   
  
“I don’t know.” Sherlock answered quietly. If John was not mistaken, the look on Sherlock’s face had grown sullen. It was unusually pale, and the detective blinked rapidly, the way he did so when he was anxious.  John could not help but smirk at his friend’s behaviour, and sank back in his seat, carefully observing him.   
  
“I’m no consulting detective…” John began, suddenly.   
“Not half,” interrupted Sherlock, scoffing.   
“…but I think, Sherlock,” John continued, ignoring his friend’s impoliteness, “You don’t want Molly to go.”  
“Where she goes…does not concern me,” Sherlock remarked stoically.  
  
The detective gulped down the rest of his tea and got up swiftly from his seat.   
  
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get ready to meet my…” Sherlock swept the papers up in his hands, “… _girlfriend_.”

* * *

There seemed to be an infinite number of things to do, but Molly was organised and after a while, it was not as bad as it seemed. She did not have many possessions, which meant packing up for her move was not a great hassle. Her colleagues at work had been incredibly supportive, though, in equal parts, tremendously sad to see her go. The pathology team was going to have their work cut out for them once Molly was gone.  
  
Most of her things were already in boxes, stacked neatly. Some were going to be stored here in England, and some were going to be shipped to her new home overseas. She had stopped for a bit of an energy boost, pouring herself a glass of juice and having a bit of chocolate. Just then, the doorbell rang and she looked up with a start. Setting her glass down on her dining table, Molly went to get the door. When she opened it, she was pleasantly surprised to see Mycroft standing in front of her.   
  
“Molly.” he said, with a polite nod.  
“Mycroft, hi.” she replied, “Come in.”  
“Thank you.”  
  
The tall figure of Mycroft walked in and sat down at the dining table, opposite Molly. Molly resumed her seat and offered Mycroft a cup of tea, to which he politely declined.   
  
“I see you’re mostly sorted?” he said, scanning her flat.  
“Yes, just a few more things and they’re ready to be sent out,” Molly said, nodding.  
“And your flight’s been booked, I gather?”  
“Yes, it has—” Molly stopped and frowned, “Wait, how do you know I’m leaving the country?”  
“I knew even before you did, Molly,” Mycroft remarked plainly.  
“Of course, you would,” Molly remarked, laughing softly. “I forget who you are sometimes, Mycroft Holmes.”  
  
The older Holmes brother merely smiled at the pathologist who was fiddling with her glass of juice, swirling the coloured liquid absent-mindedly. He cleared his throat and reached for his wallet, removing a single name card from it.   
  
“I’d like to give this to you,” he said, handing the card to her.   
  
Molly took the name card in her hands and read its contents carefully. She raised an eyebrow and looked up at Mycroft.   
  
“Why have you given me the ambassador’s contact?” she asked.   
“You can get his contact anywhere. It’s on the embassy website, you can always look it up.” Mycroft said wryly.   
“What’s this then?” Molly asked, holding it between two fingers.   
“It’s a direct hotline I’ve set up for you, for when you’re there.” Mycroft explained, “It is an embassy hotline that connects straight to me, should the occasion arise.”  
“Mycroft, this really isn’t necessary…” Molly said, placing the card down on the table.  
“Believe me, Molly, when I say it is.”  
“Nothing is going to happen to me there, Mycroft.” Molly remarked with a chuckle, “This opportunity came at a good time and it’s got absolutely nothing to do with anything here. It’s the perfect escape for me.”  
  
Mycroft inhaled slowly and clasped both his hands together. Molly watched him and saw the look in his eyes. He had come here to tell her something, not just hand her an emergency contact for when she was overseas. Their silence was laden, as Molly sat in wait for what Mycroft had come to say.   
  
“It took me a long time to decide whether it was wise to tell you this or not,” Mycroft said quietly, “But telling you would provide options, options which I feel are necessary and in everyone’s interests.”  
  
Mycroft settled his tightly clasped hands on the table and remained silent for a few moments before continuing.   
  
“Your opportunity to go to Keiō University is indeed a marvellous one,” he said, smiling at her, “However, I regret to inform you… that it has _everything_ to do with what’s happening here.”  
“What do you mean?” Molly asked. Her voice was soft and cautious.   
“Someone arranged for you to leave England, arranged for the university to get you a place, arranged your logistics, arranged for the contract… Everything was planned to get you out of the country.” Mycroft stated matter-of-factly.   
“It’s not…”  
“Yes.”  
“Why would she…do something like that?” Molly asked, her brows knitted in a painful frown.   
“Have you not seen the papers?” Mycroft asked.   
“Not recently, no.”  
“They’re quite an item now apparently,” Mycroft said, “Rumour has it he’s going to propose.”  
“What’s that got to do with me?” Molly asked softly.   
“It has everything to do with you.” Mycroft replied with a knowing smirk.   
  
It had puzzled Molly before, but now it genuinely disturbed her. She was still unclear as to how she had gotten herself embroiled in Evelyn and Sherlock’s business. Molly knew already that the Holmes brothers were on to Evelyn for a case, that there was something they needed to uncover from her. Still, she had no clue as to how she had become a target for Evelyn. Even when she had been under Mycroft’s protection after the poisoning, no one had given her any information as to why she had been nearly killed in the first place. As far as she was concerned, she had never intentionally intervened. Why would Evelyn bother to go to such lengths?  
  
From the way Molly’s gaze had lowered and the way she was biting the inside of her mouth, Mycroft could see she was thinking hard, and getting more confused. Again, Mycroft battled with how much he should let on, and how much more he should intervene for his brother. It was never easy, especially because of the larger case at hand that had been jeopardised enough as it was.   
  
“She thinks you’re a threat,” Mycroft said, at last. “Simple as that.”  
“A threat?” Molly answered, laughing, “You’ve got to be joking.”  
“I wish I were, Molly, it would have saved us a lot of trouble.” Mycroft replied wryly.   
“So…they’re a couple…” Molly began.  
“Yes, so the tabloids say,” Mycroft remarked with a nod, “And you know what I’ve told you about the tabloids.”  
“Yes, but, I can’t understand how she would view me as a _threat_ …” Molly said quietly.   
“Again, this we have to pin on my brother’s failings,” Mycroft said with a sigh.  
“His failings?”  
“Yes, if you recall, I mentioned that you were a blind spot to him.”  
“I remember that.”  
“He’s very unaware of your…significance to him, Molly. Hence, the blind spot.” Mycroft explained, “Unfortunately, this blindness seems to extend solely to the both of you. It hasn’t escaped the rest of us, which, sadly, includes Evelyn Lancaster.”  
“I still don’t understand you, Mycroft, or maybe I _can’t_ understand you…”  
“My brother, as incredulous as it sounds, is very, very human, Molly.” said Mycroft, gentle drumming his fingers against the table. “And he is most human…with you.”  
  
There was a pause as Molly smiled, lowering her head to stare into her glass. So much of her could not absorb what Mycroft was trying to tell her. Who would believe something like that? To Molly, a tabloid article about an impending wedding proposal was a lot more believable than what she was hearing now.   
  
“Why did you decide to come and tell me all this?” Molly whispered while her eyes remained lowered.    
“I did so because I’d like to propose an alternative.” Mycroft said coolly.  
“Oh?” she said, looking up.  
“Yes.” Mycroft said with a smile. “I should like you to consider staying.”  
  
Shaking her head, Molly leaned back against her seat and folded her arms. She was dead set on going to Japan. There was no way she was going to pass up such an opportunity, no matter how unusual, and possibly dangerous, its origins were.  
  
“Initially, I had planned on letting you go and mobilising some of my people to keep watch over you. Hence, the ambassador’s card and involving the embassy.” Mycroft said.   
“And that wasn’t enough?” Molly asked, amused.   
“It seemed a good idea at first, because if Evelyn was the one who sent you away and it followed though, she would most likely never think of you again, much less come after you.”   
“I see…”  
“So it was an excellent plan, really. It benefitted everyone.” Mycroft said. “We could carry on with our case, Evelyn would not be hell bent on trying to be rid of you, and Sherlock would have less on his mind.”  
“If it’s so excellent, then why are you suggesting I stay?” asked Molly.   
“Like I said, I’d like to give you the option of staying in England.” Mycroft said, “And I will accord to you the same level of protection, perhaps even more, for we would technically be putting you back on Evelyn’s radar.”  
“I appreciate that, Mycroft, I really do.” Molly said, with a sincere smile.  
“I wish I could say it was nothing personal, but really, it is an option I am opening for my brother’s sake.” Mycroft confessed.   
  
Again, Molly was thrown a little off balance. She suddenly remembered, with great fondness, her night at Baker Street. In a way, Mycroft had saved her from near death again. However, for the part that had followed, she could not tell which brother had arranged for it, or if it had been arranged at all.   
  
“Though Ms Lancaster is a truly large adversary and a proper threat, you should know that the weight she can pull is hardly anything compared to what I have available to me.” Mycroft emphasised, “You will be safe here too, Molly. I assure you.”  
“You are very kind, Mycroft.” Molly said, looking up gratefully at him, “And I appreciate you giving me the option. It’s always good to know I can choose to stay home.”  
“So, why won’t you?” Mycroft asked. It was his turn to look questioningly at Molly.  
“You do realise what a great academic and career moment this could be for me?” Molly said, “I love Bart’s, but this…this is beyond what I ever imagined.”  
“I know.” Mycroft said, “But I can always arrange for the opportunities to come here…”  
“Oh, Mycroft…” Molly said, her eyes twinkling in amusement.   
  
She was moved by his kindness. He had taken care of her once, and it seemed he still was. Having Mycroft watch out for her like that felt a bit like having her father back with her. Mycroft may seem like an iceman, with the stiffest upper lip in all of Britain, but he had the best heart Molly had ever known. It was a heart that reminded her of her father’s. No matter how unconventional this all seemed, Molly could not shake off the lovely feeling of being doted on again.  
  
“I’m grateful for your offer, Mycroft, I really am…” Molly began, looking down again.   
“But?” Mycroft asked, knowing her answer already.   
“Getting out of England will give me a fresh start, a blank slate. I get to make new connections,” Molly said, looking up at Mycroft, “And important…disconnections.”  
  
Mycroft bowed his head, resting his chin on his knuckles. He had a knowing smile on his face, but it was also a disappointed one.   
  
“By disconnections, do you mean my brother?” he asked, returning her look.   
“The one and only.” she whispered in response.  
“Do you really want to do that?” Mycroft asked quietly.  
  
Molly paused, as though to contemplate her resolution. That was the thing, was it not? She _had_ made a resolution, and she was going to stick by it. Mycroft’s kind offer was lovely and Molly felt deep gratitude that she now had this option. However, looking at the boxes lined up neatly against her wall, they reminded her that some things simply had to be packed away.   
  
“Yes, I think it’s best,” she said softly but resolutely, “I have no doubts about leaving.”  
“I don't mean to be dramatic, Molly,” Mycroft said, after a heavy sigh, “But that would undo my brother. Completely.”  
“Well, he’s undone me enough for his undoing to stop me.” she answered firmly. “I care for him. Always will. But I think it’s time I stopped being under his thumb. Don’t you?”  
  
The older Holmes brother sighed once more. With a heavy heart, he nodded in agreement.   
  
“I don't often concede to the arguments of others, but you _are_ right.” Mycroft said.  
“I appreciate you saying that, Mycroft.” Molly said, with a gentle smile.  
“Well, good luck, Molly Hooper,” said Mycroft, rising from his seat.  
“Thank you,” Molly said, getting up as well.   
  
They both walked towards the door, silent and contemplative. For what it was worth, both did their best to be satisfied with the decisions made. Before he left her flat, Mycroft turned to face the pathologist one more time.  
  
“If there is anything you need while in Japan, you know how to contact me.” he said. Mycroft’s voice was kind, and once again, brought back memories of Molly’s father.  
“You have my thanks…” Molly said, smiling gratefully at him.  
“I don't mean to be…pertinacious, but I will still be keeping a close eye out for you.”  
“It’s nice to know England is watching over me.” Molly said with a chuckle.  
“I consider you a national treasure,” said Mycroft, giving her a small smile.  
“That’s very kind of you, Mycroft,” said Molly softly.  
“It takes a special type of person to handle my brother the way you have. I’d give you a knighthood for that alone if I could.” he said with a smirk.   
“Well, if you do become Queen, do invite me to your coronation.”  
  
The two of them laughed quietly, knowing full well this was well and truly goodbye. Shaking hands one last time, Mycroft gave Molly his best wishes and walked away. When Molly shut the door, she felt an instant pang of bitter sweetness. It was nice to know she was cared for, and to such extents too. However, this was a new beginning, and it was now, or never. 

* * *

Evelyn was seated in her sitting room, going through some work documents and sipping a glass of her favourite red. Her housemaid, Helena, emerged suddenly, with a generous bouquet of blood red roses in her hands.   
  
“These just arrived for you, Ms Lancaster,” said the housemaid.   
“Oh?” Evelyn exclaimed, her eyes widening, “Thank you.”  
  
She took them from the housemaid who scurried away, but not before topping up Evelyn’s wine glass. With a smile on her face, Evelyn looked admiringly at the lush, velvety blooms in her hands. Attached to the bouquet was a tiny card. Evelyn opened the card and read its contents. By now, she could recognise Sherlock’s handwriting, for he had sent her many flowers and cards as the one in her hands right now.   
  
_I know we're supposed to meet for dinner tomorrow.  
But I’d love to see you tonight.   
Pick you up at 7pm?_  
_  
SH xx_  
  
There was a thrill that ran through Evelyn. It still amazed her that he was still here, after this long. Her hunt had been successful and he was now hers. With a sparkle in her eyes, she reached for her phone and sent him her reply.   
  
_Of course. Where would you like to go? – EL_  
  
Let’s do L’Autre Pied again. The lamb is exceptional. – SH  
  
You really like that place, don’t you? – EL  
  
Not as much as I like the company.. – SH  
  
L’Autre Pied it is. xx – EL  
  
Still smiling to herself, Evelyn packed up her work documents and decided it was enough work for the day. She headed to her room, buzzed for the maid and got ready for dinner.   
  
Time could not pass fast enough, but it did eventually. At seven o’clock sharp, the bell rang. As usual, the household knew that when it was Mr Holmes, they were to let her receive him personally. So at the sound of the bell, Evelyn rushed from the settee in her room and got the door.   
  
“Sherlock, darling,” she said, her eyes shining at him.   
“You look lovely,” he said, mustering a smile.   
  
He had a single rose in his hand, which Evelyn picked up and tossed aside. Reaching for him, she held his face in her hands and drew him to her for a kiss. Like clockwork, Sherlock wrapped his arms around her slim waist, letting her kiss him. This time, there was no need to count or steady his pulse. For as far as Sherlock Holmes was concerned, his heart had recently ceased to beat, and it was not going to for a long while.


	19. Chapter 19

It fazed Sherlock a little less nowadays when flashing lights would show up in his face after having been spotted all around London with Evelyn. They dined only at the fanciest restaurants, and were seen only at the glitziest events. Evelyn had never been more satisfied with the way things were, and with him, of course. Although her satisfaction brought him much displeasure, he was glad for it, for it meant things were moving smoothly. It was only a matter of time before Sherlock would strike at the heart of things, and then this would all be over.   
  
Once more, they were faced with unruly camera-wielding men who harassed them. Sherlock truly took his hat off to Evelyn for enduring it with such ease. She really was a natural. The pair had just finished an intimate but lavish dinner at _L’Autre Pied_ and Sherlock was seeing Evelyn home. The paparazzi were always eager to see if Sherlock would stay the night. So far, they had been disappointed. The two of them would alight at the lobby of her posh London apartment and race into the building. No more than twenty minutes later, Sherlock would always be seen exiting and hopping back into the car to get driven back.   
  
Tonight was no different. Sherlock heaved a relieved sigh when they got into the lift up to her penthouse.   
  
“You okay?” she asked, sneaking her hand into his and grasping it firmly.   
“Mmm. Fine.” he said, turning to her with a furtive smile.   
  
It was getting increasingly difficult to play this game of disguise with Evelyn. It really was that of disguise; for Sherlock had to be everything he was not. Ironically, the only aspect that did not need a disguise was the way he looked. However, every word he said and every gesture he made were contrary to the man that he was.   
  
The lift doors chimed and opened as the pair stepped out in unison with their hands held together. Evelyn stood in front of her door and wrapped her arms around the detective. Automatically, his well-rehearsed smile was summoned into place as he stared, as adoringly as he could, into her eyes.   
  
“We should do this again,” he said, “That lamb is really something. Definitely worth all those Michelin stars.”  
“I thought it was the company you enjoyed,” Evelyn remarked with a smirk.   
“That doesn’t need to be articulated, does it?” he answered, smiling at her.   
“I like to hear it,” she whispered.   
  
Sherlock laughed on cue at her flirtatious gesture, moving in to kiss her. It was inevitable that he would end up memorising the way that she kissed him. The moment his mouth would touch hers, he would instantly feel heat radiate from her. There would be a tension in her mouth as she quite literally pulled him to herself. He had been discussing this with John one afternoon, that kissing Evelyn made him feel like a piece of metal, as though he were a safety pin or iron filings. John had laughed, perplexed at his description. The detective explained that every time she would kiss him, he felt like a passive object, unwillingly hauled towards a strong, magnetic field. There was something violent and hungry about the way she held him and kissed him. All it did was make him extremely wary of her.   
  
“She seems so gentle and ladylike when we wine and dine and talk…” Sherlock had ranted to John, “Then in a flash, it turns predatory.”  
“I think you’re just overreacting.” John replied, “Everything would seem predatory to you. I can’t believe you even let yourself get this close to a human being.”  
“Nevertheless, she is not to be trifled with.” Sherlock had concluded.  
“You’re right about that.” John said, nodding his head, “After everything you and Mycroft told me about her, there’s no doubt she’s dangerous. It’s like letting a child play with fireworks.”  
“We’ll get her,” Sherlock had uttered through tightly clenched teeth, “You just wait.”  
  
Evelyn reluctantly pulled away from the smartly dressed detective, who continued to gaze intently at her. Gently, she tugged at his crisp collar, playing with its edges. Her perfectly glossed lips curled into a dazzling, playful smile.   
  
“So…” she whispered, “Can I interest you in staying?”  
  
Tonight was not the night he needed to be there. So, very gently, Sherlock removed her other hand clasped around his neck and returned it to her side. He lowered his head and kissed her as she did so, replaying every nuance of her kiss onto her lips. Mimicry had been his saving grace. In many ways, it was choreography. Sherlock’s every gesture of affection and intimacy had been exactly that – choreography.   
  
“I guess not?” she murmured the moment his mouth left hers.   
  
With his mouth barely an inch from hers, he leaned in to give her one more peck, as he noticed she would do after a long kiss. He then leaned towards her, placing his mouth just below her ear.   
  
“I have something planned for tomorrow,” he said, with a low whisper.  
“Oh?” she whispered in reply.   
“I might have to stay the night for that…” He paused to assess her reaction and it was exactly as he wanted.   
  
With one more feverish kiss, Evelyn then sent him on his way, returning to her penthouse.   
  
“Tomorrow,” he said, grinning at her before the lift doors closed.   
“Tomorrow.” she replied with a sparkle in her eyes. 

* * *

  
Mycroft was seated in his car, in the middle of a long drive back from Molly’s to HQ when he received an urgent call from one of his agents dispatched to monitor Evelyn’s underground work.   
  
“Bussell?”  
“Sir, there was another shipment, just the raw materials…but we managed to intercept it,” came a distant female voice.    
“How close were we?”  
“Too close, sir. It would have changed hands within minutes.”  
“I see. That’s unacceptably close.” Mycroft said with a sigh as he shut his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose.  
“It’s under control now, sir. Maxwell’s doing the inventory count now and we will send you the list shortly.”  
“We need to get to them far earlier. Getting to them by the time they reach the port is cutting it far too close.”  
“I know, sir. We will be starting interrogations soon, with those apprehended. I hope to give you more information then.”  
“I certainly hope so too.” Mycroft remarked, his voice strained, “Have you staked out The Lair?”  
“McCrindle and her team have been dispatched there. So far, no news and no leads.”  
“All we need is information about the next big meeting, where the big contract is being signed. If we can stop that, there’ll hopefully be no need for us to do anymore intercepting.”  
“I understand, sir.”  
“We’ve planned to get the classified information tomorrow,” Mycroft explained, “When we do, everything will mobilise according to the plan. Meanwhile, keep our ports covered and do your best not to let anything slip us by.”  
“Affirmative, sir.”  
  
As the call disconnected, Mycroft let out a breath he did not realise he had been holding. Mycroft could understand the boredom that plagued the brighter, restless minds like Evelyn’s. However, he resented the way she carelessly sought thrill, in the same way Sherlock resented her infantile need for his attention. Her little drug-dealing hobby had never gone unnoticed by Mycroft, contrary to what she believed. It was neither dangerous nor troublesome enough for him to have to dabble in. What is more, it gave Scotland Yard something to occupy themselves with.   
  
It was only a year later, that he noticed the shift in her activities. His eyes and ears that he had dispatched all over the country and the region, consistently reported the dangerous turn it had taken. Her boredom was going to risk the entire nation, and when it involved the nation, Mycroft had to step in. As Mycroft mulled over the most recent activity, his mobile phone went off again.   
  
“Yes, Sherlock?” said Mycroft solemnly.  
“Why the long face?” Sherlock asked, detecting his brother’s mood.   
“Our time running out faster than I had imagined, is why.” Mycroft answered calmly.   
“What’s happened?”  
“A new batch of raw materials nearly changed hands. They are examining it now and will give me the details of what they were exactly.” Mycroft said, “I believe it was entering the UK to be processed at Bart’s.”  
“They’re moving fast, aren’t they?”   
“Indeed. We need that laptop tomorrow, Sherlock.”  
“Consider it done.”  
“It’s not as easy as it looks,” Mycroft warned, “Evelyn Lancaster may be easy to read and therefore easy to play with but she is not as transparent as she seems. Don’t get too ahead of yourself.”  
“It’ll be fine.” Sherlock muttered, “Have you briefed your people?”  
“Yes, they all know their times and places and I’ve coordinated sufficient backup.”   
“And backup for the backup? The operation is a deep one tomorrow, and it is most likely I’ll be caught. So, we need every angle covered for when I am restrained.”  
“It has all been arranged.”  
“I’ll see you tomorrow then, brother.” Sherlock said.   
“And it will be over.”  
“Yes it will.” said Sherlock, “And so will Evelyn.”

* * *

It was late and after his phone conversation with Mycroft in the car on the way home, Sherlock finally reached Baker Street. He was tired, and dearly wished he could involve John a little more on this case. However, it was not an option, for the inclusion of John would immediately arouse her suspicion. Why else would John need to be involved in their affairs? With heavy footsteps from a weary body, he trudged his way up the stairs, his eyes glued to his mobile as Mycroft sent him more updates about the upcoming operation. Before he reached the top of the stairs to his door, he was interrupted midway by the voice of Mrs Hudson, who had emerged from her flat downstairs.   
  
“You’re up late, what’s the matter?” he asked, looking over the stair banister.  
“Nothing’s the matter,” she said, “I’ve just got something to pass to you.”  
“Oh?”  
“Here you go,” said Mrs Hudson, passing Sherlock a small paper bag.   
“Thank you.”  
“Goodnight, Sherlock.”  
  
When he reached his flat, he closed the door gently behind him and set the paper bag down on a table nearby. He was so drained that removing his heavy coat and undoing his scarf felt laborious. With a quiet sigh, he picked the paper bag up and sank into the sofa. He did not have to ask Mrs Hudson whom it was from, for he knew straightaway that it had come from Molly. Reaching into the bag, he was surprised to find a dark grey scarf, a scarf he remembered having, but not how it no longer remained in his possession. Thankfully, Molly had written a note, and he pulled it out from the bag to read.   
  
_Ages ago, you left this in the lab after its edges had caught on fire and gotten singed. You removed it, tossed it in the sink and carried on with your experiment. I was going to remind you to take it when you stormed out of the lab the moment you were done. I took it back and trimmed the burnt ends, re-hemmed the edges and it’s good as new, just an inch shorter on both sides. I never remembered to return this to you after fixing it. Sorry about that. I only remembered because I came across it while clearing my workspace. Thought I’d better return it to whom it belonged to. Take care, M._  
  
He smirked and unfolded the scarf, letting it stretch across him. Now, he remembered. Molly had been preparing to heat a beaker of carboxylic acid when he bent a little too near her Bunsen burner, the ends of his scarf catching on fire. It was too quick and momentary an event to properly lodge itself in his memory. Now that it had been triggered, it served to be a very amusing one.   
  
“Her needlework’s really come a long way…” he said to himself as he examined the finely hand-stitched edges. She had done a fine herringbone stitch all across the neatly pressed edges of the thick fabric. It was very impressive. With an unwitting smile on his face, he picked the note up to read again.   
  
“ _Clearing my workspace_ ,” he repeated from her note, “You really _are_ leaving.”  
  
Taking a deep breath, he stood up suddenly from his seat, flinging the grey scarf around him. He then walked over to his coat rack and reached for his coat again. For some reason, it did not seem so heavy now.   
  
“I suppose I’d better say thank you,” he said with a smirk, before racing down the stairs and out of his flat. 

* * *

The night was dead quiet in Molly’s neighbourhood. It seemed ironic, but Molly was far too exhausted to go to bed. She had done quite a lot of cleaning to prepare her flat for renting out when she goes away. After a hot shower, Molly settled on a rug in the middle of her mostly empty flat and sipped on a hot drink. She chose to unwind a little before heading straight to bed. Her recent conversation with Mycroft had brought her attention to the newspapers. For a bit of fun, she had purchased a copy and was now flipping through it.   
  
“Wow, he goes to dinner now? And at _L’Autre Pied_ too. He’s more posh than he realises, the snob.” she said, chuckling to herself.  
  
There was a fondness in her eyes as she scanned the photographs of Sherlock on his rather unusual case. Molly knew by now that Sherlock and Evelyn were more, or perhaps less, really, than what the tabloids made them to be. He was so gentlemanly, never leaving Evelyn’s side and seemed almost _loving_. However, she knew that this was all part of a big charade. What the charade was for, she was not sure. All she knew was that Evelyn was dangerous, and that the Holmes brothers were going to stop her from whatever it was that Evelyn had in store.  
  
Despite the warm smile on her face, it still brought a twinge of regret that she was leaving London, and therefore, Sherlock. He did look wonderful, all suited up and being unimaginably suave with his ‘love interest’. Molly read the article on his ‘impending proposal’ with much delight, smiling to herself at all the paparazzi shots of him leaving the famous jeweller’s. It was quite unbelievable to see him like that. Molly was glad she had bought the papers. At least it gave her a chance to see him before she was soon to depart. She was just chuckling over a rather uncomfortable looking picture of Sherlock and Evelyn in some sort of embrace when she heard a series of steady knocks at her door. They were quiet, neither intrusive nor hurried, but very steady.   
  
Carefully, she got up, and when she was only a few steps away from the door, she heard a familiar voice come from behind it.   
  
“Molly, it’s me.”  
  
She paused in her tracks, initially from the pleasant surprise of hearing his voice after so long. However, the smile on her face soon disappeared when she realised that she did not want him here. It would not do anyone any good. Perhaps she should not have sent him the scarf. She had sent it quickly out of guilt from their last awkward encounter, having flatly refused his offer for dinner. She realised it would have been a better idea to have sent it when she had properly left. Molly chided herself internally for her hastiness. Nevertheless, she could not deny how good it was to hear from him again, and so went ahead and opened the door.   
  
“Hi.” She said with a tight smile. “Come in.”  
“Thank you.”   
  
Sherlock walked in and surveyed the bare flat. The only furniture Sherlock could see was a single armchair, her small dining table with two chairs in place and her rug on the floor. He also saw the newspapers spread out across her floor, where she had been sitting.   
  
“Found anything interesting?” he said, sitting himself down, cross-legged, on the rug.  
  
Molly returned to her spot on the rug where she now faced Sherlock, the pages of newspaper separating them like a lake of ink and paper.  
  
“Well, I’m curious about _L’Autre Pied._ How was it?” Molly asked.   
“Spectacular. I recommend the lamb.” he replied.   
“I’ll be sure to remember that.” she said.  
  
Bringing her knees to her chest and hugging them, Molly pulled herself up and sat with her back ramrod straight. She was a little unsure of what to make of the detective’s sudden, late night visit.    
  
“I suppose it’s obvious, but it’d defeat the whole purpose of being here if I don’t say it…” Sherlock began.  
  
He still had his coat on, and so slowly removed it, leaving it in a heap beside him. He then carefully looped the dark grey scarf away from his neck, folded it neatly and placed it on his lap.   
  
“Thank you for returning the scarf. And for fixing it.” he said, smiling furtively at her. He found it hard to look in her eyes and so kept his gaze low and on the papers between them.   
“I’m sorry I took so long to return it,” she remarked a little bashfully.   
“Not a problem. I’d quite forgotten it.” he said blankly.   
“You would.” she answered with a little laugh.  
  
They both smiled, but with their chins tucked from not wanting to look up at the other. Sherlock’s hands fiddled with the scarf on his lap and Molly just hugged her knees tighter to herself.   
  
“Would you like…a drink, or something?” she asked, finally.   
“No, no, I’m all right.” he answered.   
  
Sherlock’s fingers continued to pick at the scarf, as they sat silently with each other in her soon-to-be vacant flat. It was a deafening silence and seemed to fill every crevice of the room.   
  
“Are you really going?” he asked quietly, finally deciding to look up at her.   
  
She sensed that his gaze had lifted, and so responded in kind. When her eyes looked into his, she felt that twinge of regret again that it was more than just her home she was leaving behind. No matter what he had done, or what they had been through, she knew he was a good man, and he was always going to be very dear to her.   
  
“Yes,” was all she could say. She released the hold on her knees and crossed her legs, folding her arms tightly across her chest.   
“Will you be all right there?” he asked. There seemed to be genuine concern in his voice and it made Molly smile.   
“I’ve been there once, Sherlock,” she replied cheerfully, “And I was a lot younger then too. It’s a familiar place, I’ll be meeting old colleagues… I’ll be all right.”  
“Good, that’s…good to know,” he said, smiling warmly at her.   
  
There was another pause. It was odd how both had so much they really wanted to say, but it was silence that dominated their conversation.    
  
“Sherlock,” she said.  
“Mm?”  
“I just want to say I’m sorry.” Molly said quietly.  
“What for?” he asked, frowning.  
“For…saying no to dinner.” she was almost whispering now.  
“That hardly needs an apology,” he said with a smirk, “If anything, I deserve it.”  
  
His response made her laugh, and in turn brought a smile to his face. When she looked up at him she saw that his blue eyes had lit up slightly, and it made her blood rush a little in her veins.   
  
“I wish I could take you with me,” she said with a cheerful laugh. “You’d love the facilities there.”  
“I’d gladly follow,” he replied, looking intently at her. “Without question.”  
“Sherlock…” she said, with a sad smile.  
“But well, I’ve got work here still…” he said, getting up.   
  
Molly, too, rose from the floor and stood up with him. He swept his coat back on in one smooth move but held the scarf in his hands.   
  
“What’s the matter?” she asked, unwittingly stepping a little closer to him.   
“I took a look at the scarf,” he began, “And I noticed something different about it.”  
“Oh?” she replied, looking up at him. Her lip twitched nervously.   
“I was examining the stitching…fine work, by the way,” he said with a smile.  
“Thank you,” she said with a little faux curtsey.  
“And I saw a little something extra you had done…”   
  
Sherlock reached for the corner of his scarf and flipped it so the stitched side could be seen. Hovering just above her impeccable border of herringbones was the perfectly hand-stitched initials of Sherlock Holmes. There they were, the letters ‘S’ and ‘H’ sewn in neat, cursive writing in fine gold thread.   
  
“I guess once you start stitching something…you can’t really stop,” she said with a shy laugh.   
“It’s wonderfully done.” he remarked sincerely.   
“Well, I’m glad you think so,” she said softly.   
“And that’s why, Molly Hooper…” he said, unfolding the scarf.  
  
Sherlock unraveled the scarf to its full length, only to loop it gently around the pathologist, wrapping her neck warmly in it.   
  
“I’m giving it to you,” he whispered, closing the gap between them. He looked down at her, but saw that she could not look back up at him.   
“But it’s yours…” she said in quiet reply. Her hands crept up to gently touch his fingertips that lingered on the scarf.  
“It might get cold there,” he said, feeling a warmth rush through him when their fingers made contact. “Besides, I’d rather it be put to better use.”  
“You’d rather keep me warm?” she said, glancing up at him with smiling eyes.   
“Always,” he said, smiling at her bright eyes.   
  
For the first time, the pathologist and the detective moved into an embrace. It was just a matter of wrapping arms around each other, for there no longer was any space between them. Molly moved first, clasping her hands tightly behind his back as she rested her head gently against his chest. Such warmth filled every fibre of her, from the top of her head to her toes. Most of all, it filled her heart and the cavity that had lain abandoned for so long.   
  
When Molly moved to hold him, it surprised Sherlock how natural his reciprocation was. There was nothing rehearsed or calculated about the way his arms found themselves around her waist, firmly keeping her to him. Feelings were faulty, and sentiment was unstable, but right now, there was no fault or instability in the way she felt in his arms. It was so natural a fit that it _had_ to be logical. The warmth of her skin against his chest brought a wave of solace to the detective. He would have stayed this way forever, if he could.   
  
Yet, he steeled himself to slowly separate, as did Molly. Gradually, they parted, first her head from his chest, then their arms from each other’s bodies, then finally the very ends of their fingertips before being solitary beings once more. They stood close to each other, but were careful to stay separate.   
  
“Goodbye, Molly Hooper,” he whispered, bowing his head and fighting an incredible urge to bring his face to hers.   
“Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes,” she replied, tugging at the scarf around her neck to stop from wanting to reach for him.   
  
With one last smile and a deep look into her eyes, Sherlock turned on his heels and walked out of the door. He shut it behind him without turning around. If he had, he would have not been able to leave the flat, to leave _her._  
  
As he walked out of the building into the cold night, he wrapped his coat tighter around himself, for he was now without a scarf. Still, he smiled at the thought that a part of him was keeping her warm, wherever she was headed. He had to trust that she would be all right. There was always Mycroft anyway, should anything happen.   
  
“I can wait,” he whispered, smiling to himself as he carefully replayed the feeling of her resting against him, making sure it was a memory that would never leave him.


	20. Chapter 20

When Evelyn shut the door behind her after her evening out with Sherlock, she smirked as she recalled Sherlock’s words. He was planning something tomorrow, something special, so he had said. It was certainly a day to look forward to, for she had been waiting for it for a long time. However, the excitement of tomorrow had to wait, for there was work to be done.   
  
Still dressed to the nines and in her high heels, Evelyn marched to her study and locked herself inside. She immediately dialed a number on her mobile phone and put it to her ear while she stooped to reach for her laptop in its hidden compartment.   
  
“You said there was an emergency?” she began, when the call went through. “What’s happened?”  
“We were intercepted, Ms L.” said the voice on the other end, “We’ve lost the entire first shipment.”  
“What? Everything?” she exclaimed, outraged.  
“The whole lot. They were staked out at the port,” the voice continued, “There was no way we could have avoided them.”  
“How did they even notice us?” she muttered angrily, tucking the laptop under her arm as she walked to her desk.  
“Their intel, probably. They must have intercepted one of our messages and noted the details. They even knew which of the shipping containers to raid.”  
“You mean to say that out of the _ten_ Maersk containers, they picked the one that we were using?” she asked, rubbing her temples.   
“They were spot on, Ms L. I don’t know how or why, but it seems they’re ahead of us now.”  
“This cannot continue,” she whispered, almost hissing, “I’ll need to speak with the others. When’s the next shipment due to arrive?”  
“In six days’ time, Miss. We’ll be waiting where the Hapag-Lloyd ships are docked.”  
“Ah, Mr Geiser’s contribution.”  
“Yes, Ms L.”  
“See to it that it makes it to Bart’s this time. Or our clients will be unhappy.”  
“Of course.”  
  
Once she disconnected, she heaved a frustrated sigh while swiftly opening her laptop. She immediately drafted a quick email to her co-conspirators, informing them of the breach of information and the raid on their first large shipment. She warned them to be careful, and that they would most likely have to bring forward their next big meeting so as to quickly get contracts signed, to speed up the incoming shipments.   
  
No sooner had she sent it, replies came chiming their way into her email inbox, expressing their concern and also their agreement that they all needed to meet soon in light of the most recent raid. They set a new date and Evelyn made plans to tighten security over every channel of information. No one should have noticed this first shipment. It was perfectly concealed with other absolutely normal shipments. How the alarm got raised disturbed her, and she was determined not to let it happen again.   
  
When all was said and done, she sank back into her seat and shut her eyes for a moment. There was tomorrow to look forward to. And perhaps, if it all played out well, it would mark the end of her problems. 

* * *

Mycroft had made his way to The Diogenes Club to process the day’s various meetings and all the information that had traversed his path. It was well into the night and the lounge was emptied of its usual seat-fillers. Nevertheless, it afforded the peace and quiet he needed.   
  
He was glad for the seizure of Evelyn’s first shipment, but he needed his intel to work harder and faster. Since the call, he had let word out that things were moving swifter than expected, and that they were to probe for more information. It was likely that Evelyn would up the security on all channels of communication and so sent for his best people to get to work.  
  
When that was sorted, his attention was brought back to his meeting with Molly. He took a sip of brandy from his glass and contemplated her resolution. There really was no turning back, he concluded. She had set her mind to go, and there was nothing that would stop her from getting on that flight. He had even contemplated faking a note from his brother to sway the pathologist from her decision. He smirked in amusement at the thought.   
  
Just then, a member of his staff walked in with a note and quietly handed it to Mycroft. He nodded in thanks and unfolded the piece of paper to read its contents. With a quiet sigh, he folded the note back and placed it beside his brandy glass. He had just been informed that Molly had brought her flight forward. It seemed her eagerness to leave the country had only escalated. He was curious as to why she had suddenly decided to leave so early. Surely she would want to linger a little more in the place she called home? The place she was planning to leave for five years? Mycroft smirked at himself for imaging sentiment in the lives of others, when he barely had any of his own.   
  
His thoughts travelled to those of his brother. Without a doubt, Mycroft was concerned for him. He knew by now that Sherlock had gotten wind of Molly’s impending departure. What he was not sure of was his brother’s reaction. Mycroft had his suspicions that they would negatively affect him, but Sherlock was not the sort to let his heart rule his head, not when they were in the thick of an important case. Nevertheless, in the rigour of Mycroft’s world, his brother would always be the one volatile component. He quickly reached for his mobile phone. Better to be safe than sorry.  
  
_All set for tomorrow? – MH  
  
Yes. Why? – SH  
  
It’s always good to be prepared. – MH  
  
You have nothing to worry about. – SH  
  
I wish you were right. Nonetheless, you know what you’re in for tomorrow? – MH  
  
I told you. You have nothing to be worried about. – SH  
  
And John? Has he been prepared? – MH  
  
I’m just back from Baker Street. We are running it over this very moment and you’re interrupting. – SH  
  
Just back? Hadn’t you left Evelyn’s hours ago? – MH  
  
_ Five minutes had passed and their rapid-fire text message exchange seemed to reach a standstill. Mycroft frowned as he pondered his brother’s timeline. Soon, realisation hit him as he typed to his brother again, a knowing half-smile etched on his face.   
  
_You went to see Molly. – MH  
  
_ There was no answer. Mycroft nodded slowly to himself. So _that_ was why she had brought the flight forward. They had met. Mycroft was no expert on matters of the heart, but he knew something had happened. It had obviously been something significant enough for his brother to deny his visit to Molly, and for Molly to hasten her departure from the country.   
  
Before Mycroft could explore the matter further, he was interrupted with the arrival of new updates on the shipment that had just been seized. It was as he had suspected. Mycroft would have been happier if it had been a cargo-load of heroin or some other recreational drug. Instead, his team had just stopped a massive transaction of chemicals to Bart’s that were to be processed for use in the making of weapons, biochemical weapons.   
  
The imminent heartbreak his younger brother was going to suffer, or possibly already suffering would have to take a backseat for now. An imminent international crisis, with its centre in England, was about to ignite and Mycroft had to stop it at all costs.   
  
After an hour or so of deep contemplation and poring over documents, even the mighty mind that was Mycroft Holmes needed to call it a night. He sent word to be taken back to one of his abodes. As he sat in his car, still unable to stop the cogs of his mind from running over the big operation that was to happen, his phone rang, snapping him from his thoughts.   
  
“Yes, McCrindle?”  
“Sir, we’ve apprehended a lackey sent to The Lair.” came the stoic voice of the team lead.   
“Oh? What were his tasks?”  
“He said he was sent to prepare the room for a meeting, said it had been brought forward. He was also in charge of ensuring the underground route to Bart’s was secure.”  
“But what else does he know? The time? Participants?”  
“Nothing, sir.” she replied. “He said he only did small jobs. He claims to know neither names nor details.”  
  
Mycroft let out a frustrated exhale and pinched the bridge of his nose.   
  
“He could be lying. Keep him with us and send word via the others to make sure Evelyn does not get wind of his capture.”  
“Affirmative, sir.”  
“Speaking of which, have you checked with H? Any information from that side?”  
“No, sir. Her access limits remain the same. She is no closer to the details than we are with this lackey.”  
“Looks like all bets are on my brother then.” he remarked gravely.   
“It seems that way, Sir.”  
“Nice work getting the lackey anyway, McCrindle . Cover this up via the appropriate channels and we should be able to carry on without Evelyn noticing.”  
“Understood.”  
  
Their conversation had reminded Mycroft as to why he had to involve his brother. With Evelyn, it had not been a trivial game of ‘spy-versus-spy’, rather, it had become a war. It was a constant battle of wits, intel against intel, but it was getting him nowhere in uncovering her new and dangerous involvement with biochemical weapons. Thus, he had decided to infiltrate from another angle. If hide-and-seek was not going to work, then why not be obscenely obvious instead? Sherlock was the answer to this. He was Mycroft’s way of getting in, in a way that would be so outlandish it would overshadow, rather than show up on, her radar. Mycroft was aware how large a favour it was to ask of his brother, but he was certainly entitled to ask for it. After everything Sherlock had needed from Mycroft in the two years post-Moriarty, it was fair exchange.   
  
Nevertheless, he did feel a twinge of guilt for the additional consequences his brother had inadvertently suffered, and was going to suffer, for this operation. Mycroft was not a man of sentiment, for it was a weakness to bear it. Yet, Mycroft could not help but be such a man for the sake of his brother.  
  
_Would you like her to stay? I can make it happen. – MH  
  
No.   
We are on a case.  
Why are you talking about this? – SH  
  
Just to be sure your mind is clear for tomorrow. – MH  
  
Of all times to be in doubt of me, brother. – SH  
  
Of all times, indeed. – MH  
  
What are you saying? – SH  
  
Bluntly? I’ve never seen you so fond of a human being. A living one, that is. – MH  
  
Fond? Would I be so puerile? – SH  
  
You are always so puerile, Sherlock.   
Which is why I like to be sure. – MH  
  
This is ridiculous.  
I am fine.   
After tomorrow, my debt to you will be over. – SH  
  
As you say. I merely wanted to be sure. – MH  
_

* * *

When Mrs Hudson headed upstairs to bring the boys some breakfast the next morning, she was perplexed to find it somewhat drafty, as though someone had left all the windows open. As she approached the entrance to their flat, she was further puzzled by the faint hint of smoke in the air. By the time she entered the room, she quite nearly fainted at the state of the room. There were open laptops everywhere, various sketches of floor plans scattered on the ground and an exhausted John collapsed on the sofa, dead asleep.   
  
The scent of smoke was overt now and Mrs Hudson slammed the breakfast tray on the first surface she could find. She marched over to the open window where the tall detective stood, smoking away, in his maroon house robe.  
  
“What are you doing?” she asked firmly, trying to snatch the cigarette out of his hands.  
“Smoking.”   
“You know you’re not supposed to be doing that.”  
“It’s for work, helps me think.” he muttered in reply, merely raising his hand to render her unable to reach the cigarette.  
“You told us you were going to stop this nasty habit,” she continued, turning back to the side table with the breakfast things.   
“I see you’ve brought us sustenance...” he said, with the cigarette perched between his lips, “Excellent. It was about time John woke up.”  
“You put that out right away, young man,” she said, glaring at him one last time before heading back downstairs.   
  
He scoffed and stubbed it out by the windowsill. The detective walked over to survey the breakfast things and decided to pour himself a cup of tea. He took a bite out of a piece of toast and proceeded to pour a cup of tea for John. Carrying the little teacup in his hand, he strode over to kneel by the sofa his best friend was sleeping on.   
  
“John, John!” he said, bringing the tea nearer, as though the fumes of Earl Grey would somehow wake him.  
“Hmm…wha—Oh God!” John exclaimed with a start.   
“Good, you’re awake. Have some tea.” said the detective, shoving the teacup in his friend’s face.   
“I’m on the sofa again, wonderful…” John remarked with a sigh as he reached for the teacup, “What time did I fall asleep?”   
“Oh, I don’t know. But it was about the time I was testing you on the map of Evelyn’s penthouse…”  
“Right, yes, I…vaguely remember.” John said, setting the teacup down so he could have a stretch.   
“We’ve a long night ahead, John. A very long one.” Sherlock said, returning to his armchair to sip his tea, “Are you ready?”  
“I should be asking you that. I’m not the one about to risk my life…” John said, sitting back against the sofa, “Literally, you’re walking into a lion’s mouth…”  
“When one walks into the mouth of a lion, it is easier to shoot it in the heart.”  
“ _That_ …is pure philosophical poppycock you’ve just made up.”  
“Nevertheless, it leads to a rather desirable conclusion.” Sherlock replied. “Besides, I’ve already died once…”  
“Yeah, and you’re _not_ trying that again.”  
“Too late now,” he said with a shrug, “Who’s to say I’m going to die anyway? It’ll just be a scratch or two, perhaps…”  
“Sherlock, you have no idea what this woman is capable of.” John said, sitting up and staring sternly at his friend. “Are you sure you and your brother, the two _genius_ Holmes brothers, could not think of a better plan?”  
“A better one might exist, but that would take time. And frankly, we’ve both run out of patience.” he answered casually.   
  
There was such a contrast between John’s tense posture and serious words and that of Sherlock’s absolute laissez-faire approach to the whole situation before them. John was not exaggerating when he mentioned the lion’s mouth. Bluntly, that was the plan, no question about it. Though the plan appeared coarse, the brothers had deemed it the best way. It was this obtuse approach that they had agreed would work. Evelyn was terribly sharp and certainly a keen player, so why fight fire with fire? Or at least, why fight fire with fire when one could simply smother it? Dousing it to its demise in the most unexpected of ways?  
  
“She could do you some serious damage, you know?  
“Yes. And we’re banking on that…”  
“I’m not going to let you die, Sherlock,” John remarked gravely.   
“I know,” Sherlock answered with a wry smile, “That’s why you’re on the team.”  
“No, Sherlock, I mean it,” John said, “This is no laughing matter.”  
“No one’s laughing…”  
“ _Listen_ to me, you _idiot_.” John interrupted, “This is a crazy plan, all right? But I get that it’ll work. I get it. Just…be careful. All right? Could you at least _try…_ not to cock it up by being so cocky about it?”  
  
John’s concern was met with silence, which he took as a form of consent on the detective’s part. A lack of a retort was as good as a yes.  
  
“Good.” John said with a nod, “So yes, in answer to your earlier question, I am ready.”

* * *

There were two things left that Evelyn had to settle. First, she had to make sure all her employees were where they had to be. Now that eyes and ears were on her operations, she had to be extra careful. Secondly, she had a dress to pick for what was to be a rather unforgettable night with a certain Sherlock Holmes.  
  
They had arranged to meet for dinner. He had said he was a little busy and so could not pick her up. By way of apology, he had insisted that she decide on the restaurant for dinner, in case she was bored of _L’Autre Pied_ by now. She had chuckled at his text about the restaurant, and booked their usual dining area there anyway. Evelyn could not resist spoiling the man. He did so enjoy the lamb.     
  
At seven o’clock, Evelyn showed up promptly for dinner and was surprised to find the detective waiting for her inside.   
  
“I thought you were going to be late,” she said, receiving a peck on the cheek from him, “You said you were on a case?”  
“I try not to be late for you,” he answered with a smile, “Besides, it’s _L’Autre Pied_.”  
“Ah, so that’s the trick then,” she laughed.   
“A perfect combination, wouldn't you say?” he remarked, “A gem of a woman for company, dazzling wines and magnificent lamb…no case could make me late for this.”  
“When did you learn such flattery?” she asked with a smirk.  
“It’s not flattery,” he said, picking her hand up to kiss it.  
“You’ll have to convince me,” she said with a wink.   
“I will,” he answered, looking boldly at her.   
  
Dinner came and went, with lots of laughs, flirting and intelligent conversation. Evelyn certainly had a brilliant mind. If she had not decided to jeopardise the safety of England, and possibly millions of lives more, Sherlock would have rather enjoyed her company. If there had been also been an absence of a physical relationship, he would probably have enjoyed it a great deal more.    
  
Nevertheless, in the car on the way home, his well-choreographed moves were in place. He always remembered to stay in constant contact. There was a little bit of handholding, or the placing of his hand on the small of her neck, and constant kisses any time, anywhere. By the time they reached her penthouse, his intentions were very clear. Sherlock Holmes was staying the night.   
  
“You’re _sure_ you want to come in?” she teased, wrapping her arms around his neck as they stood kissing in her doorway.   
“It’s about time, don’t you think?” he whispered before planting a row of kisses down her neck.   
  
She smiled as she reached for his hand and turned around, leading him into the penthouse.   
  
“Helena,” she called out casually, “Send some wine to my room, please.”  
  
There was a quick scuttling of feet as the housemaid appeared and quickly uttered a reply before scurrying off to ready the wine. Evelyn led Sherlock into her room and shut the door.   
  
“I’m…going to get out of this dress,” Evelyn said with a sly smile, “Be a darling and check that the maid brings us the wine, won’t you?”  
“Of course,” Sherlock replied, settling himself on her luxurious settee while Evelyn disappeared into the vastness that was her walk-in wardrobe.  
  
In a matter of minutes, there came a shy knock on the door from the housemaid, to which Sherlock responded, allowing her in. Her eyes were kept low as she carried in the same ornate silver tray Evelyn always used. On it was a bottle of Evelyn’s best red wine and two glasses. The petite housemaid set it on the low table before Sherlock.  
  
“Will that be all, sir?” Helena asked Sherlock.   
“Yes, thank you, Helena,” he answered, “We’ll let you know later if we need you.”  
“Of course,” she said with a little bow of her head before quickly exiting.  
  
Sherlock removed his dinner jacket and folded it casually over the settee’s velvet armrest. He took a moment to gather his thoughts. Sherlock ran through every step of game-play he was about to embark on, but all the while keeping an eye and ear out for Evelyn. This crucial step had to be timed perfectly. First of all, he had to pour the wine.   
  
Sitting up, Sherlock reached forward for the bottle, pouring the dark red liquid into both glasses. When he was done, he decided to get up to pace the room casually, pretending to admire the vases and artwork that adorned her room. He made a mental note to ask Mycroft for one of the paintings he saw hanging by Evelyn’s bedside once this whole operation was over. It was a rare and expensive work. Diego Velázquez’s _Isabel de Borbón,_ a portrait of Elisabeth of France. She was a most admired queen in her day. Sherlock could see why Evelyn would have such a piece hanging in her boudoir.   
  
His hand reached into his trouser pocket, checking for the tiny little pillbox that he had with him. Deftly, he unclasped the box and slipped the capsule between his fingers, while keeping his hand concealed in his pocket. He continued to walk around, listening carefully for her. Before Helena’s arrival he had heard the sounds of a zip being undone as Evelyn disrobed, as well as the kicking off of her heels. There were the sounds of wooden hangers clacking against themselves, possibly from her sieving through her racks of clothing. Then there were her soft footsteps as she walked around the carpetted walk-in. She could have been undoing her hair, spraying on some perfume, many possibilities.   
  
Sherlock returned to lingering around the table where the filled glasses were displayed. Every so often, he glanced to see if she was on her way out. Soon after, he could hear her footsteps nearing. He waited until he could hear the footsteps just reaching the entrance to her room. When he was sure he was in her line of sight, with his back to the walk-in, he quietly slipped the capsule in as it dissolved with a soft hiss within seconds.   
  
When Evelyn emerged, smiling and comfortable in a silk robe, she was just in time to catch the detective slip the small capsule into one of the glasses. With a smirk, she lingered by the entrance until the drug had fully dissolved, before making her presence known.   
  
“How are we doing?” she asked, wrapping her arms around him from behind.   
“Fine,” he said, twirling her to face him, “Just impatient for a certain beautiful lady to emerge.”  
  
Evelyn laughed as they leaned into each other and kissed.   
  
“Did you not help yourself to any wine?” she asked, reaching for her glass and swirling it expertly.   
“I was waiting for you,” he said, reaching for his glass and raising it to her. “Cheers.”  
“Cheers,” she said, clinking her glass against his.   
  
She was just about to take a sip when she stopped and exclaimed.   
  
“Oh,” she remarked abruptly.  
“What’s the matter?” he asked, continuing to sip his.   
“I…forgot to take this necklace off,” she said with a chuckle, “I don’t want expensive diamonds getting in the way of our…evening.”  
“Let me help,” Sherlock offered gallantly.  
“Please.” she answered with a smile.   
  
Evelyn turned her back to him as he set his glass down, carefully undoing the silver necklace.   
  
“Thank you, dear,” she said, kissing him quickly on the lips. “Now, if you don’t mind, I need these in a particular little safe. I’m very protective of my diamonds…”  
“Of course,” he said, settling into the settee.  
“Don't you move from that spot,” she said with a flirty curve of her lips.  
“I’ll be right here.” He said with a charming wink.  
  
With a little wave, Evelyn excused herself and returned to her lavish walk-in wardrobe. She smirked to herself as she scooped the necklace with its slim row of diamonds back into its velvet box.   
  
“Well, I like keeping them on but it seems you too have something else on your mind, Mr Holmes,” she whispered as she shut the velvet box.   
  
There genuinely was a safe she used for her diamonds. Evelyn turned the little dial and popped the velvet box in. She then headed to an inconspicuous little drawer at the bottom of one of her many wardrobe spaces. Kneeling down, she pulled the drawer open and searched carefully among the neat little boxes. They all had little labels on them with what was obviously some personal code she used to identify the contents inside.   
  
“Let’s see now…” she whispered, sifting through the contents.   
  
When Evelyn had observed her glass, she saw the last traces of effervescence just fading as she swirled it. It was probably a generic sleeping pill of sorts that he had slipped in. Evelyn had enough experience to deduce what Sherlock had most likely added to her wine. Thankfully, in her line of work, she had her people comprehensively design counter-drugs to everything. Once she had selected the right antidote, she took it and headed out once more to meet her date for the evening.   
  
“I’m glad to see you’ve not fled,” she remarked, sliding into place next to him.   
“You’ve not had your wine with me, how could I possibly leave?” he said, handing her the glass.   
“How could you indeed?” she said with a chuckle as she took a generous sip of wine.   
  
The pair continued their flirtatious chats from when they had been at the restaurant, Sherlock constantly moved in to kiss her, twirling the sash of her robe between his fingers. Evelyn laughed, smiled and let him tease her. Before long, Evelyn had finished her glass and she lay back against the settee with a satisfied glow on her face.   
  
“You feeling all right?” he asked, turning to face her.   
“Mmm…just….” Evelyn gently rolled her head, as though stretching her neck, “I guess this robe…and you…everything feels so…comfortable.  
  
She began to look up at him, with an intoxicated smile on her lips. Her eyelids seemed heavy all of a sudden as she blinked at him dreamily. She seemed to want to say something but was unable to. Her shoulders started to sway as she struggled to sit up. Moments later, she fell to her side, collapsing on the armrest. Sherlock smirked as he moved to check if she was breathing. He knew she would be, of course, but he did promise not to ‘cock it up’. When he had ascertained that she was as he needed her to be, he left the room and made his way to her study.   
  
He had made his exit unusually clumsy. His footsteps were loud, and he opened the door widely so as to slam it shut loudly. As he made his way along the corridor, Sherlock smoked a cigarette, tapping ash onto the floor every few steps. When he finally made it to the study at the end of the corridor, he strode boldly in. Immediately, he began to make a mess of the place. He knew perfectly what he was supposed to be obtaining, for he could see the little shelf out from the corner of his eye. Instead, he was pulling files out of Evelyn’s cabinets, strewing their contents on the floor. He walked over to her desk and pulled the drawers out, picking locks where he had to, and emptying their contents on her desk.   
  
In spite of the little ruckus he was creating in the room, Sherlock took care to continue keeping an ear out. Although there was the rustling of paper and the clacking of scattered stationery about, he was able to look out for certain sounds. They were his cues. This plan of theirs was all about timing. Everything had to be, in the Holmes brothers’ own words, ‘grotesquely coincidental’.   
  
Amidst the shuffling of papers and knocking about of office furniture, Sherlock could finally hear what he wanted to hear. There was that first creak of a door. By which he moved into position, standing in front of her desk. Then, there were the footsteps. He was hoping to confirm whose footsteps they would be, for he and Mycroft had made a bet as to who would come intervene. Much to Sherlock’s dismay, he was not going to be able to find out until much later.   
  
With his back to the door, and his hands still dramatically ruffling papers, a slim shadow loomed behind, with a raised hand poised to strike. In one swift move, the hand that held a revolver swept down to meet the back of Sherlock’s skull. There was a distinct hardness to the sound of the metal smashing against bone. Seconds later, there was the soft thud that followed of the detective, well and truly collapsed on the floor.   
  
Evelyn had restored her high heels to her feet. Shaking her head, she took a step forward to the body slumped at her feet. With a cruel upturn of her lips, she kicked the limp body viciously, stabbing his back with her sharp heel. She was pleased at the lack of response.   
  
“Mechanical methods are _much_ more reliable, dear.” she whispered over him.   
  
Suddenly, two of her henchmen burst into the room. It seemed they had come at her command.   
  
“What next, Miss?” one of them asked.   
“He’s blacked out. Take him to my room,” she murmured.   
  
The men reached for Sherlock’s unresponsive body and dragged him off to her boudoir, as instructed. Evelyn surveyed the chaos created in her study and clicked her tongue.   
  
“Not much of a detective, are you?” she said to herself, glancing over at her little shelf.  
  
Laughing softly to herself, Evelyn sauntered out of her study and made sure to lock the door. She would tidy the mess tomorrow. For now, she had a detective to play with.


	21. Chapter 21

It felt like an incredibly intense state of drowning. It was not as though Sherlock had drowned before but there was this terrible sense of enveloping blackness. Even in his unconsciousness, his mind fought to pry himself out of it. He could breathe, but it was not helping him emerge. His brain shouted out commands to move, but none of his limbs responded. He tried to get his eyelids to open, but they were sealed shut. Although Sherlock knew it was only a matter of time before he would get out of it, he did not enjoy this current state of _not_ being.   
Chap  
When the weight finally began to lift, he fought to gather himself again. This was a pleasing, albeit painful, challenge for that prized mind of his. He had to consciously control the pain, fight the heaviness in his head and assemble his thoughts once more. Was not the brain _the_ muscle? It was the command centre that directed his every step. So it was only a matter of working on the mind, and everything else would kick into motion.   
  
Her voice was muffled at first. Again, it was as though he had been submerged in deep water. It took a while but eventually, the first muscles that responded were those in his eyelids. Slowly, but surely, they lifted like heavy windowpanes. The outline of her shape was but a distorted array of colours. There was the large mass of coral pink that was her robe, with the paler splashes of beige, which were her flesh. Eventually, he made out the shape of her head. The dark brown area he could see was most likely her hair. Very slowly, other details of her body and the room began to emerge. He could see the coloured spots on her fingers, her manicure, as she gesticulated wildly, talking on the phone. Then, the overall shape of the room began to swim into view. He could see the bed before him, the settee to his left and to his amusement, the eyes of the portrait he had coveted staring down at him blankly.   
  
There was the sound of a man groaning. It was soft but laboured, and the man seemed out of breath. It was only then that Sherlock realised the sound came from his own throat as his body fought its way into consciousness. It was also then that Evelyn realised her detective had stirred.   
  
“What good timing,” she said, setting her phone down, “I was just finished with my clients, I’m sure you know about them…”  
  
Evelyn got up from her seat and strolled to where the detective was. He had been placed in the centre of her room, sitting awkwardly in her dressing table chair. His hands were tied behind him while his upper torso was tied to the rich mahogany back of her chair. Even his feet were bound tight, restricting any possibility of standing, much less a daring escape.   
  
“A bit juvenile, don’t you think? Trying to spike my drink?” she remarked with a mocking lilt in her voice.  
“Not if you’re dealing with an impulsive teenager, no…” he answered, grimacing from all the pain his body was awakening to.   
“A teenager…” she said with laugh, “Maybe, but at least I’m no fool.”  
“I’ll give you that,” he replied a little too easily. “So, was it an antidote? Some ‘spitting-it-back-in-your-glass’ technique I don’t know about? That can be done with beer bottles, I know…”  
  
She laughed, interrupting his mini deduction of how she had escaped being drugged. Obviously it did not matter how she had done it, he was only relieved she had. Out of all the gambles the Holmes’ brothers had to make, this was the largest one, and it had paid off.   
  
“It’s just a matter of popping pills and knowing which one to take,” she answered casually. “I still can’t believe how simple you are. Maybe I shouldn’t be so fond of you after all.”  
“Not a problem,” he remarked, hissing slightly from the throbbing pain in his skull, “I’d rather you weren’t so fond.”  
“Oh, but I _like_ you…” Evelyn whispered, staring at him with a smirk, “I can’t help it, but I do.”  
  
There was no need to pretend now, no need to pretend that he was going to even tolerate her. Granted, she may have had a brilliant mind to begin with and was an intriguing conversational partner, but Sherlock did not have to pretend to want to have anything to do with her now. His eyes were hard as he glared at her, grateful that his vision had recovered enough for him to do so.   
  
“It must hurt…” she whispered, placing a hand gently on his cheek. Evelyn could feel the rough streak of dried blood that had trickled down from when she had struck him on the head. It felt like a river of rust beneath her smooth palm.   
  
The nearness of her face to his repulsed him, and he was not afraid to show it. When he felt her hand on his cheek it automatically made his skin jump. Evelyn felt the jolt from his negative reaction to her and it incensed her. As it stood, his deceitful affections had been insult enough. Now, to witness his true aversion towards her was infuriating.   
  
“Shh…be gentle or you’ll hurt yourself,” she whispered, tenderly kissing him on the side of his face.   
  
Sherlock shut his eyes and turned away as she continued to kiss him, not minding the dried blood on his face or the sweat on his brow. He flinched slightly when her lips grazed over a rather horrid bruise on his eyebrow bone. That was probably from when he had collapsed and hit his head on the floor.   
  
“Yes, that one looks rather bad,” she murmured, tracing a finger lightly over the swollen skin streaked with purple and grey. “I’ll get that sorted. Wait here for me, and don’t move.” She smirked at her own words and sauntered out of the room.   
  
When she returned, she had a first aid kit in her hand. Evelyn pulled up a decorative stool in her room so as to place the kit beside the detective. After opening it, she took a small tub of ointment out meant to help with the inflammation on his bruise.   
  
“I’ll take care of you, don’t worry,” she whispered.   
  
Carefully, she lowered herself onto his lap, straddling him as her two feet hooked themselves on the bottom ledges between the legs of his chair. She stroked his cheek once more, ignoring his flinch of disgust at her touch.   
  
“I’ll be gentle, promise,” she murmured as she dabbed the cold ointment gently around his bruise.   
  
The care she took was delicate and almost loving. Her fingers gently circled the bruised area, taking care not to apply too much pressure as to hurt him. There was an obsessive look in her eyes as she continued to tend to him. After soothing the bruise, she proceeded to clean up the blood from the wound at the back of his head. Then, she wiped his face clean of any trace of blood. When she was done, she got off his lap and smiled, satisfied, at her handiwork.   
  
“There, much better,” she said, before leaning in to pop a kiss on his reluctant lips.   
  
When she pulled back, her eyes were wide with anger. She had gotten accustomed to his willing mouth that moved with hers. His cold, unmoving lips now sent a stroke of madness through her. Incensed, she tried again, plunging herself into him and pressing hard against his mouth. Again, it felt like kissing a sculpture of stone. There was no reciprocation. His lips did not part, she could not feel his breath and there was no movement. Once again, she jerked back, staring down at him. Her eyes of fire were met with his icy ones.   
  
Without a word, Evelyn placed the tub of ointment carefully into the first aid box and lowered its cover carefully. She then clicked it shut and picked it up. With the box in her hand, she looked up at the detective who now just stared blankly ahead, not bothering with her in any way. To her, Sherlock seemed aggravatingly calm, as though he was content to just sit there and wait forever.   
  
A loud bang resonated inside Sherlock’s skull as Evelyn swung the box firmly across his face. The hard edges of the plastic box were slammed against his cheek, sending a wave of pain through his cheekbone and temple. In the same manner, Evelyn swung the box once more, slamming him on the other side of his face. Sherlock’s head swerved involuntarily, following the path of her force.   
  
When she was done, she stood quietly in front of him, calmly observing the new injuries that formed on his face. She could see new little streaks of purple paint themselves from beneath his skin. There was a cut forming on one of his cheekbones and she had split his bottom lip. She watched in amusement as he grimaced from the searing pain that shot through his temple. The detective bit his lip instinctively to stave off the pain, only to realise it was bleeding and that he was in fact, aggravating the ruby-coloured gash on his lip.   
  
“You poor thing,” said Evelyn with a sympathetic click of her tongue. She moved towards him and, with her bare thumb, rubbed the blood that was trickling down his chin. “My poor, poor Sherlock…why would _anyone_ want to hurt you?”  
  
Sherlock knew that for as long as she remained here with him, he was buying valuable time for the plan to work. Yet, he could not help but want to escape her rather unnerving presence. With a smile on her face, she opened the first aid box once more and began to tend to his wounds again. This time, she got some cotton swabs and dabbed a little antiseptic on it. Evelyn resumed her position on his lap and began delicately cleaning up the scratches on his face, being careful not to touch the bruised skin around them.   
  
Each time the damp cotton touched his wound, he hissed quietly from the way it stung. The one on his lip, in particular, quite nearly choked a tear out of him.   
  
“Shh, that one’s a nasty one, I know,” she said soothingly, gently pressing the cotton swab onto his lip so as to stop the bleeding. “This will hurt a bit but I have to stop the bleeding…”  
“Why are you doing this?” he asked, unable to contain himself.   
“Doing what?” she asked, keeping the pressure on his wound.  
“ _This._ ” he repeated.   
“Like I said, I can’t help but be fond of you.” she replied coolly.  
  
Evelyn flung the bloodstained cotton swab away and picked a fresh one up to clean the cut on his lip once more. It still bled slightly but it was a lot more under control now.   
  
“Haven’t you any work to do? Instead of playing silly games?” he said, trying desperately to move his mouth away from her determined hands.   
“Hold _still_ , you silly thing,” she remarked, smiling and ignoring him, “We don’t talk business when we play.”  
“Play?” the detective repeated softly.   
  
His dropped his head and laughed quietly to himself.   
  
“So this is what happens when you take candy away from a child,” he said raising his eyes to look hard at her. “It throws a _tantrum_.”  
  
Evelyn smirked as she continued to clean his wounds, ignoring the fact that he was fidgeting so as to avoid her hands that touched him.  
  
“Oh, Sherlock,” she murmured, planting a kiss on his forehead when she was done.    
  
Once again she opened the first aid kit box carefully and returned all of its contents neatly. She made sure to arrange the bottle of antiseptic properly and even readjusted the little packets of cotton swabs. When she was satisfied with its arrangement, she slowly lowered the lid and shut it. The click from the case shutting seemed so very loud in the big bedroom they were in.   
  
“My dear, _dear_ Sherlock,” she said, returning to tower in front of him, “I am no child. And _no one_ has taken any candy from me.”  
  
Lowering her head so that their eyes met, she tilted her head and threw him a dazzling smile. She then leaned forward, shutting her eyes, and kissed him, his bloodied mouth and all.   
  
“And no one will ever take what’s mine from me again.” she murmured. “Not even you.”  
  
Her smile had transformed. Her gaze seemed disconnected from rational thought and Sherlock could only hold his breath and try to regulate his increasingly palpitating heart. Managing to maintain his steely gaze, he watched her as she stepped out of her glossy black high heels. Slowly, she bent to pick one up and beheld it as though admiring it.   
  
Sherlock could only sit and watch as she took one final step toward him such that her knees touched his own.  
  
“But you’re right,” she said with a knowing nod, “I _am_ throwing a tantrum.”  
  
With a gentle, dark smile creeping back onto her lips, she raised her hand that held the stiletto and with it, struck the detective hard in the face. 

* * *

When John received word that the coast was clear, he was glad to be able to get moving. At least it brought him indoors, away from the rather chilly night. He had surveyed the building once before, while waiting on the signal. So when the call came to mobilise, he moved straightaway to the correct door and let himself in.   
  
John found himself, as the building plans had revealed, in the staff area of the apartment block. This was where the lifts and stairwells were situated for any of the staff that worked here, whether they were the building staff or the live-in domestic staff of tenants. In short, the ‘downstairs’ of this fancy residence, where the bins were kept and where housekeeping staff accessed and exited the building.   
  
He searched for the right lift that would take him to the back doors of the different residential sections and found the one to Evelyn’s. John had been given a key card and casually swiped it at the lift’s access scanner, letting himself into the lift once its doors opened. Taking a deep breath, he slotted the same card to activate the lift buttons. With a soft beep, the lift buttons were active. Soon the doors were closed and John was en route to Evelyn’s penthouse.   
  
Once the lift stopped, he stepped out cautiously into a small space with a single door in front of him. The little area was well lit, but dead quiet. From studying the floor plans, he knew exactly where he was. Quickly, he sent word out via a quick text that he had arrived and waited for the next signal before proceeding. John moved close to the stark black door with its fancy digital lock system and security devices. With his eye on the flashing red dot of light embedded in a long metallic bar fixed on the door, he waited. Suddenly, the little red light stopped blinking, only to turn blue and stayed blue.   
  
_The light will go off and switch to blue_ , John recalled. _Wait fifteen seconds for the coast to clear before entering_.   
  
John stepped forward silently and put his ear against the door. He then began to count as he heard the swift scurrying of footsteps move away from the door. When the fifteen seconds were up and he had ascertained that there was no longer anyone behind the door, John turned the handle and pushed it open with ease.   
  
“Very nice,” he whispered to himself as he stepped into an impressive kitchen area. It was the second kitchen, where the housemaid did all the real culinary activity. There was another more exterior kitchen area that was used more as a showroom than a functional kitchen. Nevertheless, this ‘less fancy’ kitchen was far fancier than any kitchen John had ever seen. He stepped right through this kitchen into the next one. John had really done his homework, having memorised the floor plan of the penthouse. He moved easily through it, as though it were his own home.   
  
“Through the kitchens, take a left, long corridor and last room on the right…” he spoke quietly to himself.   
  
The penthouse was dark and empty, as he was expecting it to be. Nevertheless, John carefully surveyed every corner, making sure the gun he had brought with him was securely in his hands. However, there was no one in sight as John exited the kitchens, made a left and kept his footsteps as quiet as possible while he made his way down the corridor. He was rather grateful for the thick, ornate carpet that ran the whole length of the way.  
  
When he walked past what he knew was the door to Evelyn’s room, he was tempted to quickly take a peek, or at least press his ear against the door to see if Sherlock was all right. It took all of his faith in the brothers’ plan to move past the door, choosing to believe that whatever the brothers said was going to happen, was indeed the case. Nevertheless, the worry arose from the fact that nobody knew what Evelyn was capable of. Not that they could not imagine the things she might do, but that they could not imagine a limit. That scared John the most. Even Mycroft had let slip a hint of worry, wondering if Sherlock was going to lose his life in the process. It was Sherlock, however, who had scoffed at them both, insisting it was going to be “just fine”.  
  
“Right, here we are,” said John to himself as he came face to face with the infamous study door. Reaching into his pocket, he reached for the little toolkit Sherlock always had with him and unfolded it, searching for Sherlock’s trusty lock-picker, which really was just a glorified name for a long, metal pin. As steadily as he could, John began to pick the lock, remembering all the various possible scenarios Sherlock had presented to him. When he figured out the structure inside, he made a few careful turns and nudges, eventually hearing the satisfying click of the door being unlocked.   
  
Immediately, John let himself in and quickly shut the door behind him. He made sure to lock it back, so that the sounds of anyone unlocking it would give him time to hide his presence. The first thing he saw was the mess in the room. There were papers everywhere and over-turned drawers all round the room. He gulped nervously, shaking away thoughts that his best mate might be dead, and focused on the mission at hand. In a single glance, he spotted the little shelf Sherlock had described and strode over to it. He knelt down and studied it, his eyes scanning the rows of pristine, glossy magazines. One by one, John then began to pull the magazines out, still being careful not to make a single sound. He spotted the door of the hidden safe at the back of the shelf.   
  
Sherlock had told them about the safe and its dial. However, he had not had a chance to properly look at it, to determine the right safe combination. Thankfully, the fact that it was an ordinarily manufactured safe, with a recognisable brand and type, meant that Mycroft was able to supply John with the appropriate device to unlock it. John removed from his pocket what looked like a little black box with some wires hanging out of it. With great care, he affixed the device to the surface of the safe, making sure the wires and the original dial were all hooked up correctly. With just a few clicks here and there and manipulating the dial on the little black box, John had managed to unlock the safe as the little safe door popped open. John reached in and found the laptop they were looking for, the treasure trove of all the information Mycroft could not obtain.   
  
It was safe to talk in the study and so John did not have to text, but instead touched the underside of his collar and spoke into it.   
  
“I’ve got it. You can move in now.” 

* * *

Sherlock almost slipped back into the dark waters of unconsciousness, but he steeled himself awake, focusing on controlling the pain that ripped through his skull. He blinked his eyes rapidly, trying to regain focus in his vision as his head gradually stopped spinning. There was a ringing in his ears as well from having been struck so hard, and so many times in the face. When his vision finally cleared up, he looked up to find Evelyn had seated herself on the bed next to him and was quietly observing him.   
  
“You’ve made me have to do a lot of extra work, you know, Sherlock,” she said.   
  
He rolled his eyes and looked away from her. There was no need to entertain anymore of her dramatic monologues.   
  
“You’ve messed up my study, for one,” she exclaimed with a little laugh, “And that brother of yours, pesky little government worker, isn’t he? Stopping my precious cargo from reaching.” Evelyn clicked her tongue in disapproval.  
  
Sherlock would never miss a chance to insult his brother, but he did not tolerate it when others did the same. They had not the right to insult Mycroft.   
  
“You may think me a fool, Ms Lancaster,” he said, “But you are wrong to think that of my brother.”  
  
Evelyn sighed and fiddled with the silk sash of her robe.  
  
“I told you to call me Evelyn,” she said quietly.  
“Never.” Sherlock answered, almost spitting the words.   
“You are stubborn, aren’t you?” she remarked with a smirk, “But that's why I like you Sherlock.”  
  
She got up from her bed and walked over to her vanity table behind the bound detective. Sherlock obviously could not see what she was up to but desperately tried to listen out for her actions. He heard the sounds of drawers opening and the little clinking sounds of metal. After one final slam of a drawer, Evelyn had resumed her position in front of the detective.   
  
If it had not been a life-threatening situation, Evelyn would have looked most amusing. She was still barefoot, for one of her heels had broken and was stained with his blood. The robe still clung to her frame and her hair was still neatly put up, save for a few wisps that had come undone at the sides. In her right hand was a dull, black handgun. In her left, a perfectly polished knife. The hyperbole of bearing two weapons contrasted most comically with the fact that she was no longer shod and was hardly dressed.   
  
“I don’t want to do this, you know, Sherlock…” she said, stepping towards him.   
  
The detective’s eyes widened slightly. Perhaps they were right. Mycroft was right, John was right, even Evelyn was right. He had been a fool. He exhaled, frustrated, not so much from his impending death but from an internal chastising of himself.   
  
“Pity your brother can't save you,” she remarked, “Of _all_ the times not to meddle with my business, he chooses now.”  
  
At her words, Sherlock still managed a little smirk. What did _she_ know of Mycroft?  
  
“As far as his surveillance of me is concerned, you’re just having dinner with me, and possibly having dessert now.” She continued, “It really is good, isn’t it, to have inside information on the people spying on you? I suppose, in the end, it’s just a matter of his network against mine.” She let out a little laugh as she tapped the knife against her thigh.  
  
“So, what’ll it be?” she whispered, using the tip of her knife to raise his lowered chin. “Since you won’t stay with me, I guess you have to go.”  
  
Even in the face of death, Sherlock was far too proud to give up. Logic would prevail to the very end and he would stick to the plan for as long as he could. His role was to buy time and if buying time meant a slower death, then a slower death it would have to be.   
  
“The knife, please.” he said. There was a subtle and inevitable crack in his voice, but he chose to ignore it. His answer made her chuckle. She dropped the knife and lifted the gun to his forehead.   
  
“I prefer things a little cleaner – and faster.” she whispered.   
  
Suddenly, the sound of the door being swung open interrupted the pressure of her fingertips on the trigger. Immediately, she aimed the gun at the door and was most amused to find John Watson glaring fiercely at her, with a gun aimed right in her face.   
  
“Drop it,” John said, “Now.”  
  
Evelyn smiled as she studied the man, from the leather on his jacket to the cuffs of his shirt to the laptop he had tucked under his arm.   
  
“ _Oh_ , how _clever_ …” she said, turning her head to face Sherlock, “You got me there, dear. You really did.”  
“Did you not hear me?” John repeated, “I said, drop the gun.”  
“I’ll do it if you give me the laptop,” she answered calmly, “Come on now, John, we all know how you listen to the pretty ladies…”  
“I don’t see any in this room,” he retorted.   
“My word he _has_ got quite a tongue, hasn’t he?” she said, turning to Sherlock once more.   
  
With his gun still aimed at her, John manoeuvered the laptop from under his other arm into his hand and held it up.   
  
“We’ve got your laptop, we’ve got all the information we need to incriminate you, you might as well just give up,” said John, not once taking his eyes off her.   
  
His words made Evelyn laugh as she shook her head incredulously. When she was done laughing, the smile instantly disappeared from her face as she let a shot ring out, sending a bullet right into the laptop John was holding. When it fell crashing to the floor, she shot it a few more times until it was a hissing, smoking pile of mangled plastic and wires. After she had fired her shots, one of her henchmen returned, bursting into the room and placed a gun right at John’s temple.    
  
“You all right, Miss?” said the man.   
“Never better.” she replied smoothly.   
  
John stared at what was left of the computer and knew to keep his cool. Above all, he was tremendously relieved to see that his friend was alive.   
  
“You okay, mate?” he exclaimed across the room, ignoring the cold mouth of a gun pressed against him.   
“Hmm, yes. Just a bit of a headache.” Sherlock replied.   
  
Evelyn turned to Sherlock and shook her head in amusement.   
  
“Coming here to distract me, getting your friend to take my things…” she stopped to chuckle to herself, “Are you so obvious, Sherlock? I’m disappointed.”  
  
The detective looked up at her, his ears pricked for he could not see all that had happened behind him by the door. Moments later, he could hear the softest click, a sound he had been waiting to hear. It was the sign that they had succeeded after all. Now, it was his turn to grin at her.   
  
“Sometimes, _Evelyn_ ,” he said, dragging the sound of her name, “Obvious _works_.”  
  
His grin puzzled her. When she turned back to look at John, she gasped softly to herself.   
  
“Good timing, H,” said the detective from his seat.   
“Thank you, Mr Holmes.” came the voice of Helena, Evelyn’s housemaid.   
“Helena?” Evelyn uttered, stunned.  
“Just H. Now, drop the weapons,” she said calmly, addressing both the henchman and Evelyn. The agent had a gun in each hand. One was pressed against the henchman’s forehead just as he had done to John, and the other was aimed squarely at Evelyn.   
  
“I’ll shoot him…” Evelyn said, panicking slightly and brandishing her gun against Sherlock’s temple.   
  
There was no need for the agent to negotiate or protest. In some unusual synchrony, John elbowed the henchman behind him, pinning him to the ground within seconds. H had simply fired a shot, lodging a bullet right into Evelyn’s wrist, forcing the gun out of her hand. Evelyn dropped to the ground with a cry, gripping her bleeding wrist as the pain rampaged their way through her.   
  
“It’s clear. Send him in,” said the agent, speaking into her own intercom device.   
  
The agent stepped easily over the henchman whom John had taken out with a strike to the head with his gun. She knelt beside Evelyn and grabbed her wrists, igniting another shriek of pain. Within seconds, there was the click of cuffs and Evelyn had her hands secured behind her back. John had immediately run over to Sherlock, picked Evelyn’s knife off the ground and began to free the detective.   
  
“You almost died.” John muttered, his teeth gritted as he ran the blade over the rows of cable ties.   
“But I didn’t,” Sherlock replied, stretching himself once the cable ties fell off.   
“You’re an idiot.” John continued.  
“No, I’m not and you know it,” he said, turning to face John, “It worked, did it not?”  
  
The best friends stopped their bickering when they noticed the arrival of Mycroft, who strode in quietly with his trusty umbrella in his hand. His calm eyes scanned the room from corner to corner, only to finally rest upon the crouched heap that was Evelyn Lancaster.   
  
“You can’t do anything now,” she said, shaking her head wildly, “The laptop’s gone to blazes. I’m going to walk away scot-free. I always do.”  
  
Mycroft smiled to himself as he lowered his chin. His long, pale fingers drummed against the varnished crook handle of his umbrella.   
  
“I was disinclined to believe my brother when he would regale to me your conversations with him, but it seems he was right.” he remarked stoically, “You really do underestimate me, Ms Lancaster.”  
  
The tall figure of Mycroft strode towards her and positioned himself just a few steps away.   
  
“So believe me when I say this,” he said quietly, “You really, _really_ shouldn’t.”


	22. Chapter 22

From the ground where she sat, Evelyn watched her room slowly fill with people. Mycroft remained where he was, towering above her with both hands resting on the smooth curve of the umbrella’s crook. As members of Mycroft’s team streamed in, Evelyn realised, stunned, that each man and woman was someone she recognised. Not only did she recognise them, they had all been someone employed in her stead.   
  
Mycroft surveyed the area for a place to sit and gingerly sat himself on the edge of her bed. He crossed his long legs and drummed his fingers quietly. His team first got rid of the unconscious henchman on the floor, dragging his body out of the room. Evelyn watched quietly and calmly, refusing to admit defeat, whilst a member of Mycroft’s medical team worked to address her injured wrist.  
  
“I still have men and women all over this country,” she said, resentment dripping in her voice, “They are doing my work for me _right_ now while you sit there in your fancy suit.”  
“The only truth to that statement is that this suit was indeed a little indulgence of mine,” said Mycroft.  
“Please,” she scoffed, “You may have infiltrated my people to get your information but you’ve lost your only source of information.”  
“Again, dear Evelyn, you are only right about the suit.” he said, looking down at the shine on his shoes.  
  
A few other members of Mycroft’s medical team had come in to take Sherlock away to receive medical attention. The detective waved them away, his eyes glowing from victory as he watched, in anticipation, his brother’s final act. The curtains were finally going to fall, and this was a scene Sherlock was not going to miss. Even John could not help but smirk whilst observing Evelyn’s foolish state of calm.   
  
“Are you trying to make me laugh, Mycroft?” Evelyn remarked, struggling to stand.   
“H, do give her a hand.” Mycroft said casually.   
  
The agent, formerly known as Helena, nodded and helped Evelyn up from her position on the floor. Evelyn’s robe was now stained with streaks of blood from the gunshot to her wrist. It had not been a bullet that struck Evelyn and, thankfully, with H’s utter precision, the pellet served to injure her rather superficially. Once the tourniquet had been in place, Evelyn’s pain had mostly ebbed.   
  
With H’s hands not once leaving Evelyn’s arm, she guided her to move closer to Mycroft. Evelyn glared down at the seated figure of Mycroft.   
  
“You may have stopped _me_ ,” she whispered, “But you can’t stop what I’ve started. You’ve got nothing to go on.”  
  
Sherlock nearly burst out in laughter at her statement. There was a grin that John could not wipe off his face. Mycroft’s face registered no emotion. His eyes, cold as glass, returned Evelyn’s venomous stare.    
  
“What makes you think so?” Mycroft asked quietly, his eyes not once leaving her face.   
“This, your brother, his little espionage… it was all for _that_ ,” she said, turning to look at the crushed laptop on the floor.   
  
There was a quiet laugh that escaped from Mycroft. Evelyn fiercely whipped her head back from the insult in his jest.   
  
“Throw me in jail, send me away, do what you want,” she remarked smoothly, “I’m still going to enjoy watching you fumble around. I still win in the end, Mycroft.”  
“Your father was right about you, you know?” said Mycroft, slowly rising from where he was seated.   
“My father again.” Evelyn scoffed, rolling her eyes, “Do you ever stop talking about him?”  
“However, he might just have been a little biased.” Mycroft continued, ignoring her. “You are, after all, his precious daughter, the apple of his eye…”  
“Oh, just tell her already…” Sherlock interrupted, wincing as he rubbed his jaw.   
“Tell me what?” Evelyn asked, turning in Sherlock’s direction.  
  
With a nod, Mycroft sent another agent out of the room, only for her to return shortly with a laptop in hand. Evelyn took a good look at the device and saw that it was the exact same make as her own. The agent opened the laptop, holding it before Mycroft as he moved beside her to scan through its contents.   
  
“Perfect. Everything is in order.” He said with a smile. “Thank you, Agent Bussell.”  
  
The man who singlehandedly embodied the whole of Britain’s safety and wellbeing took two steps towards Evelyn, who was still firmly held by H.   
  
“Your father was only _half_ right,” he said quietly, “You are bright, but you are _sloppy._ ” _  
_  
As Agent Bussell took her leave with the laptop in her hand, Mycroft continued to stare at Evelyn, waiting to see if the real gravity of her situation had properly sunk in. It seemed it was starting to.   
  
“No, you can’t have…” she whispered, horrified.   
“That is what happens, Ms Lancaster, when you underestimate people. And really, you picked the wrong candidate to underestimate.” Mycroft replied calmly.   
“Why have you got my laptop?” she asked, her eyes wide, “I’d _shot_ it. I’d shot it to pieces.”  
“In two days’ time, I believe, an urgent meeting is to be held over the seized shipment, in that silly underground playground of yours.” Mycroft remarked, “You really have gathered _quite_ the group of elites. I should expect their respective embassies to be very busy soon. Trials, deportation…”  
“How did you –” Evelyn asked, panic slowly rising in her veins.  
“Your father really thinks too highly of you,” said Sherlock, coming over to stand by his brother. “Even John could have figured it out.”  
“Oy, what do you mean?” John asked sharply.  
  
Despite the rudeness of his best friend, John could not help but grin at the marvellous success of their operation. At the time, it had seemed completely insane and, not to mention, inconceivably dangerous. Yet, by the miracle that was the inconceivably clever Holmes’ brothers, they had succeeded. Earlier on, when John had found the laptop, he had immediately contacted Mycroft and his team, who were already on standby. They swept in swiftly, not worrying about security in Evelyn’s home for nearly everyone who had been working for her, had actually been working for Mycroft. The few genuine members of her team had long been apprehended.   
  
All it took, therefore, was for a dummy laptop to change hands. Once John had identified the brand and make of the machine, Mycroft, who had prepared an entire warehouse of assorted laptops, merely sent for the right one and had it handed to John. The laptop that John had in his hands was therefore the decoy, so as to buy more time whilst Mycroft’s team began work on the original laptop. Mycroft’s technical people had its information backed up on every possible sort of drive and electronic storage device. So while Evelyn was busy destroying a useless piece of machinery, the very centre of her operations was being commandeered. It had been _that_ simple.   
  
“Well, I hope you do realise at some point that this _is_ over and I _have_ stopped you…” Mycroft said.   
  
Evelyn stared hard at him with a scowl in place. The greatest insult of all had been the fact that Mycroft Holmes had duped her. He had played right into her hands, or so she thought, but it was in her hands, that he managed to get what he wanted. This was more than she could bear. Evelyn yanked herself out of H’s grasp and lunged towards Mycroft. Before she could even get an inch closer, she stopped, gasping sharply as though she had been struck. To everyone’s surprise, the elder Holmes’ brother, who constantly articulated his disdain for legwork, had marvellously keen reflexes. With a single sharp movement, he flipped a tiny catch in the varnished crook he was holding, revealing a tiny blade at the very end of the umbrella, before stabbing Evelyn swiftly in the thigh.   
  
They stood there, facing each other quietly. Mycroft, calm and unaffected with one arm slightly extended as the barely noticeable blade in his umbrella stayed lodged into Evelyn’s flesh. There was no sound that came out of Evelyn either, but her eyes were screaming. They were screaming in shock, horror and of course, pain. H had regained her grip on Evelyn to make sure she could not lunge toward her boss again.  
  
There was a sharp hiss that came from Evelyn as her legs eventually buckled. She fell slowly, kneeling on the ground just as Mycroft retracted the blade and restored the umbrella to a less menacing state. He surveyed the little bits of blood around the pointed end of his umbrella and clicked his tongue. Mycroft did not appreciate the mess.   
  
“What’s going to happen to me?” she asked, breathing heavily from the accelerating pain as she kept her head down.   
“I’m not an unkind man, Ms Lancaster,” Mycroft said, staring down once more at her.  
“Of course, you’re not…” she said with a scoff.  
“Incarceration wouldn't suit you,” he said, as he turned and made his way for the door.   
“I’d be a queen in there,” she said, laughing bitterly.  
“Exactly,” Mycroft said, turning to smile wryly at her.  
“So, what then? An asylum? Some special high-security prison you’ve got?” she asked sarcastically.  
“Oh, no, none of that sort.”  
“Then what, Mycroft?”  
“I’ve built a lovely little house for you, your father has seen it and he adores it.” Mycroft began, “I told him you were in a spot of danger…something to do with drug cartels and naturally, he was very concerned. I promised I’d take care of you, keep you under my watch. 24 hour surveillance. He even agreed to keep you from attending all those soirees you so detest…”  
“I don’t understand.”  
“Exile, my dear. Under my orders, my watch.” he said, “You won’t have to do anything now. You won’t have to work. You won’t have to play. And honestly, no one would even know what happened here.”   
“ _Exile_?”  
“Yes, right under my nose.”  
“I’d rather die than be exiled under you,”  
“That was rather the point, Ms Lancaster,” Mycroft replied, “My brother has informed me of your great fear of boredom, and how that often leads to mischief. Well, we need hardly worry about that anymore, do we?”  
  
With one last dry smile and a little bow, Mycroft exited the way he came. Sherlock and John followed suit, leaving H and the rest of her team to sort out the newly-exiled Evelyn Lancaster and the rest of the operations. 

* * *

Was it always so cold in the mornings? Molly shivered as she dragged herself out of bed in the wee hours of the day. It was still dark out but she had an early flight to catch from Heathrow to Narita and already, the morning was disagreeing with her. She managed a final hot shower in her bathroom and got dressed. It was far too early for breakfast, and Molly decided that she could always grab a bite at the airport anyway.   
  
When she arrived, she had only a few pieces of luggage with her. Despite her protests, Mycroft had insisted on supervising and managing her move to Japan. All of her necessary belongings were being safely shipped to her new home abroad. She smiled fondly as she recalled all the phone conversations she had with the most powerful man in England and the fuss he was making over her move to Japan. It almost felt as though he was being purposefully intrusive just to annoy her enough to cancel the move. Nevertheless, his care was very much appreciated. Behind those cold eyes of glass and his unsmiling face, Molly was certain of a heart, and a very good one at that.   
  
When she stepped out of her taxi at Heathrow, some morning light had broken and Molly was glad to see the London sky one last time. She would not miss the rain, but she would miss the sky because after all, it represented home. Despite how early it was, Molly was glad for it because it meant she got things done faster, with a lot less waiting.   
  
Soon, Molly was checked in and settled nicely in the departure lounge, taking a breather. She clutched her bag to herself and surveyed her surroundings. This was it. This was _really_ it. There was no turning back now and she was going to go. For a moment, she felt a surge of sadness as she recalled a small party her colleagues at St Bart’s had thrown for her. It was a good team and Dr Wright was a very good boss. She was going to miss them all.   
  
Molly began to really feel the heartache from her departure. There were only a few people Molly could really call friends. In fact, because she had been without family most of her life, these friends had become family. There was Mrs Hudson, who was never without a warm hug or a cheerful smile. John was always a rock, kindhearted and perfectly reliable. She was so glad he had found Mary, whom she had had the chance to meet on a few occasions. Mary was gutsy, big-hearted, confident and perfect for a good man like John.   
  
Then, there was Sherlock Holmes.  
  
_And what about Sherlock Holmes?_ she thought to herself. Her lips lifted into a small smile that she tried to suppress by biting her lip. She was recalling their last encounter, the night he had visited her in her flat. The scarf he had given her was wrapped around her neck. Molly fiddled with its ends and looked down at the initials she had sewn onto the grey fabric.   
  
“Sherlock Holmes,” she said quietly, looking down at the letters. “Sher-lock Holmes…”  
  
_Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes brings one of Europe’s largest drug rings to its knees. Erika Moore reports._  
  
Molly’s head shot up at the sound of his name. She looked hastily around and realised it had come from the television in the airport lounge. The screen that was fixed to a pillar was playing the day’s breaking news. Her eyes widened as the report unfolded and she saw everything, including a very bloodied and handcuffed Evelyn Lancaster being wheeled out of her premises in a wheelchair. She was surrounded by so much security it was amazing the camera could even get a shot of her.   
  
_Mr Sherlock Holmes, who has reportedly been on this case for months, is directly responsible for uncovering the cartel, exposing key players, which has led to the subsequent arrests of several high-ranking officials on various government and medical boards._  
  
Instead of Evelyn, the screen now showed a close-up of Sherlock’s face as he exited the building. Molly gasped as she took in the state of his face. She could see the terrible bruising and swelling along his jaw and the side of his face. There were streaks of blood in random places, and he did not appear to be walking very well. She fought the urge to reach for her phone when just then, the camera zoomed out, giving Molly a much wider shot of the detective and his surroundings. Her anxiety soon turned to amusement, as she watched the detective nudge and wave the poor medical personnel away from him. The men and women in their orange vests were trying desperately to get him onto a stretcher, or to throw a shock blanket around him. He fought them all the way through until he reached (what Molly knew was) one of Mycroft’s private cars and hurried in.   
  
“Sherlock Holmes,” she murmured, shaking her head with a laugh.  
   
_Molly Hooper. Paging for a Ms Molly Hooper._  
  
A louder voice, louder than the television blared overhead. It was the airport PA system and it continued to call out her name.   
  
_Ms Molly Hooper, if you could please approach any of the airport staff, we need your attention immediately. Ms Molly Hooper…_  
  
Everyone began looking around as the announcement continued to sound. Quickly, and as inconspicuously as possible, Molly rushed over to a counter and made herself known.   
  
“I’m Molly Hooper…” she said, showing the man her passport.  
“Ah, Ms Hooper. One moment please.” The man hit a few buttons on some device at his desk and spoke into it. Molly could not hear what he was saying but was grateful that once he had done so, her name was no longer being shouted overhead.   
  
“Ms Hooper?” said a tall lady in a dark suit. She was followed by four other men and women in similar dark suits.   
“Are you…”  
“Yes,” the lady said with a smile. “Would you come with us, please?”  
  
After going through many doors with the words _No Unauthorised Access_ emblazoned across them, the team of suited people ushered Molly into a private room. She was offered a seat and asked if she needed a beverage. Molly thanked them and shook her head. There was no time for a coffee or tea, for she did have a plane to catch.  
  
“So, why am I here?” Molly asked.  
“You have a phone call.” the lady said. She gestured to one of her assistants who handed a silver mobile phone to her.   
“You brought me through all this deep airport security, just so I can take a phone call?” Molly said with a small laugh, “Mycroft _really_ is dramatic.”  
  
With a small grin of amusement, Molly put the phone to her ear.   
  
“Hello, Mycroft.”  
“Molly.”  
“Why have I been taken to a secret room for a phone call?”  
“I trust you’ve seen the news?”  
  
Molly sighed. He was still trying.   
  
“Y-es.”  
“He’s finally agreed to be brought to hospital, at least for a quick check up.”  
“He looks fine to me…”  
“If you’re worried about your flight I can always make arrangements for a later one. And I can sort out the delay in Japan as well—”  
  
Molly had to bring a hand up to her mouth to stifle a little laugh that threatened to escape.   
  
“Is he still conscious?” she asked. “I saw that he was on his feet in the news clip.”  
“Well, yes, but you can never be sure. He was bludgeoned, to say the least—”  
“Bludgeoned?” Molly asked, unable to contain the small strain of worry.   
“By Evelyn Lancaster herself. If you thought his bruising around his jaw was bad, you should see it now. If you’d like, I have a car waiting for you already.”  
  
The temptation was great, and so was the anger Molly felt rising against the woman who had struck Sherlock. Evelyn spelt danger from the very moment she had appeared. Molly had been a victim of it once, and now Sherlock. If there had been a reason to stay, it would have been to hunt Evelyn down herself. Molly smirked at the thought of laying Evelyn’s body out at the morgue, but quickly shook it off. She was not the sort to fight fire with fire. Besides, Mycroft had apprehended her. There was certainly nothing to worry about.   
  
“He looks fine to me,” Molly said, at last.   
“Would you at least like to come and see for yourself?” asked Mycroft.  
  
Molly took a deep breath and moved the phone to her other ear.   
  
“He’s not seriously hurt, is he?” she asked. “Be honest.”  
“He’s…not in the best shape.”  
“Mycroft, he’s going to be fine, is he not?” she asked once more.   
  
There was a pause.   
  
“Mycroft, I appreciate what you’re doing,” she said softly, “But I _am_ going to go.”  
“I suppose it was worth a try,” he answered.    
“He is all right, though?” Molly asked.   
“Yes, just very badly bruised but alive and kicking. We’re taking the necessary precautions, nevertheless. He _was_ struck very badly on the head.”  
“I see.” she answered quietly.  
“Are you sure about this?” Mycroft asked.   
“Well, I’ve been under your care and I recovered marvellously,” she said, smiling at the recollection. “I’m sure Sherlock will be fine.”  
“Once again, I can’t seem to argue with you,” he remarked.   
“Because you know as well that what I’m doing is right,” she said.   
“Yes, I suppose.”  
  
She could hear him sigh ever so slightly in disappointment, but Molly was resolute. There was a plane waiting for her and she was going to get on it.   
  
“Take good care of him, Mycroft,” she said, “And of yourself too.”  
“Thank you, Molly,” he said.  
“Goodbye, Mycroft.”  
“Goodbye.”  
  
When the phone call was done, Molly was ushered out via the same set of heavily secured doors back to the departure lounge. She resumed her seat and waited for the call to board. When the announcement came on, she tried not to think about the conversation she had had with Mycroft. If she did, it would make her look back. If she looked back, she would never look anywhere else again.   
  
_Sherlock Holmes is reportedly in medical treatment from injuries sustained during the latest crackdown of the largest drug cartel in the last decade. More updates to follow after the break._  
  
The television screen showed a picture of her former workplace. It was a beautiful shot of the building. There was footage of press gathered outside, and repeated footage of Sherlock being driven in through one of the back entrances, in Mycroft’s car. He was on his feet. That was all the assurance she needed. There was a small nagging feeling that kept her eyes glued to the screen, a nagging feeling that should be there. However, as Molly pictured going to see him, and the way he was probably going to behave, she turned her head resolutely away. He had waved away medical staff, blankets and stretchers. She was sure he had put up a huge fight, refusing Mycroft’s requests for thorough medical attention. She was not going to run all the way back, to be waved away too.   
  
The scarf wrapped around her neck felt heavy now, as though contradicting the thoughts in her head. She counted all the ways that he had _not_ waved her away. The warmth of the fabric against the skin of her neck reminded her of the moment that they had held each other, to say goodbye. Molly liked that memory. It was warm, sincere, and it was _lovely_. What were the chances that he would react the same way if she had gone to see him? That goodbye was too precious to have ruined. No, she thought, she was not going to risk it.   
  
_Now boarding, flight BA0005, outbound to Tokyo, Narita Airport. All passengers are to please present their passports and boarding passes at the gate. Thank you. This is the call for flight BA0005, which is now ready for boarding._  
  
Molly held her passport and checked her boarding pass. Everything was in order. Before she headed to join the queue of people, she took her phone out and sent Mycroft one final text message. When she had done so, she smiled to herself, returned her phone to her pocket and joined the line of people. There were still smatterings of the reporters’ voices from the television, occasionally mentioning his name. Soon, those voices faded as she moved nearer and nearer the gate. She tugged at her scarf and smiled to herself. His name would have to fade as well, but only just for now. 

* * *

Mycroft was stood outside one of the observation rooms at St. Bart’s. Through the blinds in the glass windows behind him, one could roughly make out the figure of Sherlock Holmes sitting on an examination table while two doctors and a nurse performed routine checks for any head injuries. His voice could be heard from outside, a non-stop stream of irritation as he was being examined.   
  
While his brother was being examined, Mycroft had had his phone call with Molly. With his phone in his hands and disappointment in the air, he stood where he was and contemplated. Just then, the phone buzzed in his hands and he tapped on the little icon that indicated a new message had come in.   
  
_Your brother is a fool and deserves none of your charity, but I know you’ll look after him. Thank you for everything, Mycroft. – M  
  
_ There was no need to reply, and there was nothing left for Mycroft to do. This was her parting message to him, and Mycroft knew that she had decided to board the plane. With a frustrated sigh, he shoved his phone back into his pocket and strode into the room his brother was in.   
  
“Can I go now?” Sherlock asked in annoyance, whilst trying to avoid a light the doctor was shining into his eyes.   
  
Turning to look directly at his younger brother, Mycroft could not help but scowl at him.   
  
“You should have listened to me when I told you to get on that stretcher,” Mycroft uttered fiercely.  
“But I’m _fine_ —”  
“You should have listened,” he repeated sternly, before turning to walk out of the room.


	23. Chapter 23

It was late morning at Baker Street and Sherlock Holmes was seated in his usual armchair, his morning tea having grown cold on the table beside. His face, now free of bruises and cuts, registered a smirk as he angled his chair to lean back against and glance, satisfied, at the gorgeous painting that now hung on his wall. Elisabeth of France stared down at him in the pomp that was her immense gown. He looked back, his clear eyes boring into her pale face, admiring her presence in his little flat. Mycroft had generously remembered his promise and had the painting from Evelyn’s boudoir sent over.   
  
However, Sherlock had also noticed the sudden wave of irritation that had overcome his older brother. Their relationship had always been rocky, but Mycroft seemed particularly impatient of late. Nevertheless, it never bothered Sherlock too much. Only when his mind was a little less occupied, as it was now, did it creep back into his thoughts. The detective reached for his tea, but before the porcelain could touch his lips he heard the sound of a car pulling up below his flat. He sighed and set his teacup down. Why was his brother here again?   
  
“What are you here to bore me with this time?” he asked out loud when he heard the distinct sound of footsteps and the end of an umbrella.  
“Bore you?” Mycroft answered with a smirk, settling himself onto the sofa.   
“More raids you’d like to invite me to?” asked the detective.   
“As a matter of fact, yes,” said Mycroft, “Evelyn Lancaster may be out of the picture but there’s still a lot of cleaning up to do. People to find, shipments to stop, meetings to interrupt—”  
“Surely your people can handle that,”  
“Of course they can.”  
“Then?”  
“Then what?” asked Mycroft coolly.  
  
Sherlock rose abruptly from his armchair and walked over to the sofa. He stepped up on it, much to his brother’s horror, and closely scrutinised his new painting.  
  
“Then why are you still inviting me to do these little…clean-ups?” Sherlock asked, his nose almost touching the painting.   
“I saw that you weren’t on a case, I saw an opportunity…”  
“An opportunity?” the detective said with a laugh.   
  
With a quick turn, Sherlock hopped off the sofa and moved to stand in front of his brother.   
  
“An opportunity for what?” he asked his brother.   
“To get your mind off things.”  
“Things? What things?” the detective asked with a frown.   
  
To Sherlock’s surprise, Mycroft stood up suddenly, the end of his umbrella thumping hard on the floor as he did so. Sherlock’s eyes widened in curiosity, his brother was having one of those fits of irritation again.  
  
“Throwing a tantrum is not going to get me to continually do your bidding, Mycroft,” said Sherlock, “I’ve already paid the debt I owe you. I am free to work on my own cases now…”  
“Oh, for God’s sake, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, hitting his umbrella against the floorboards once more.   
  
The detective kept silent, staring at his brother, trying to work out what it was that had put him out of joint.   
  
“This is not about _me_ , it never has been.” Mycroft said.   
  
Sherlock could not find a response to that, and so continued to stare at his brother. He secretly marvelled at the little flush of agitation that appeared on Mycroft’s cheeks.   
  
“How many weeks has it been since?” Mycroft asked, keeping his cool.  
“Three and a half.” came Sherlock’s swift reply.  
  
Mycroft looked at his brother in surprise.  
  
“So you _have_ been counting—”  
“It’s not a matter of counting. It’s merely a fact. It has been 24 days since we closed the Lancaster case. Evelyn’s been sent away, you’re slowly but surely apprehending everyone in the circle, and you’ve also successfully kept the bit about biological weapons out of the news—”  
  
The small sigh that escaped Mycroft stopped Sherlock’s stream of words. The brothers stared at each other, each with a perplexed frown.   
  
“What are you on about?” Sherlock asked quietly.   
“You know what?” Mycroft said, making his way to the door, “She was right. You do not deserve my charity. Especially if you’re going to be a fool about things.”  
“ _She_?”   
“Yes, _she_ ,” Mycroft scoffed. “Goodbye, Sherlock. I apologise for interrupting your day.”  
  
As swiftly as he had come to the flat, Mycroft had left. There was the sound of a car door slamming before the hum of an engine began fading away. Sherlock walked back to the painting, stepping up on the sofa again. He reached up to touch the canvas, feeling the rough texture of the oil paints.   
  
“She…” he repeated quietly, staring hard at the portrait. The eyes of _Isabel de Borbón_ peered into his own as he studied the painting. Sherlock stared at it as though it were about to give him some great revelation. As his eyes continued to roam the painting, the detective’s lips curled up into a secret smile.   
  
“Three weeks, three days, eleven hours and forty three minutes…” he murmured to himself.   
  
Sherlock knew he did not deserve his brother’s charity. Though he would never admit it, he knew his brother had been nothing but good to him. However, he was no fool. He _had_ been counting. Five years was going to be a long time, but Sherlock rather relished the challenge. Besides, anything could happen, he thought to himself. She might be back before anyone knew it. He smiled at the thought. It was a possibility he was delighted to consider.  
  
The detective leapt deftly off the sofa and reached for his coat and scarf. He had better get started on looking for cases. Perhaps he could open Baker Street up for consultation again. Either way, he had a long wait ahead. He might as well keep himself fruitfully occupied. 

* * *

It was a week and half shy of Christmas and Sherlock had returned from another disgruntled day at the morgue. He was not short of supplies, for his brother always ensured he could get what he wanted for his ‘experiments’. There just seemed to be a severe lack of intellectual kindred in that place. Molly had been away for almost a year and half now and Sherlock had had to grapple with, in his opinion, the utterly substandard colleagues of hers.   
  
“You’re back early,” said John from behind a newspaper as he sat in his usual armchair.   
“And you’re in Baker Street. Had a fight with Mary, did you?” Sherlock replied as he hung his coat up.   
“Very funny, but no. We’re not conjoined at the hip, you know.” John said with a laugh.  
“You sure about that?” the detective said as he strode to the kitchen, “Coffee?”  
“If you’re making one, yeah,” John said, folding the newspaper he was reading and putting it away.   
  
When the coffees were made, Sherlock brought them to the sitting room and handed a black mug to John.   
  
“Thanks.” John said. “So, why are you back so early? Weren’t there some lab reports you wanted to look at?”  
“Yes, I would have been looking at them this very afternoon had they not been so incompetently generated.”  
“Ah, trouble at Bart’s again,” John remarked with a chuckle. “Perhaps you should come work for me at the clinic. I’ll let you have all the equipment to yourself.”  
“I’m genuinely considering that offer now,” Sherlock replied, smirking.   
  
The two men sat in their respective armchairs and sipped their coffees. They talked about a few cases the detective had been pursuing as Sherlock lamented John’s recent absence in most of them.   
  
“Your clinic staff can surely handle you being away for a few days,” said Sherlock  
“Yes, but I’m not going to do that just so I can chase a gang of grave robbers.” John answered.   
“It’s a lot more entertaining, and definitely more up your street,” Sherlock said, finishing the last bit of his coffee. “How many more haemorrhoids do you need to see before going mad?”  
  
John laughed. Sherlock did have a point. However, John was going to be a family man, or at least that was the plan he was intending with Mary. His last big case with Sherlock had been the one that took down Evelyn Lancaster. Since then, John had decided to stick to a more regular work life.   
  
“In case you change your mind, I intend to be at Brompton Cemetery at midnight tonight.” Sherlock said, rising from his seat.   
“We’ll see,” John said. “It’s time I had a night off.”  
“I certainly recommend it,” Sherlock said, as he had his way into his room, “Besides, I’m sure they’ll be heavily armed.”   
  
There was no doubt that John was going to join him at the cemetery. After some hours of stalking at midnight and apprehending some very skilled and dangerous robbers, the duo made news again the next morning. The gang of seven grave robbers and their rather absurd and grotesque grave robbing antics had finally been stopped. Sherlock and John had, in all respects, unearthed a frightening underground operation that dealt with illegal organ transplants, and grafting body parts.   
  
“ _That_...was quite a night,” John said with laugh as he watched DI Lestrade handcuff the last of the group.   
“Like I said, definitely more up your street,” Sherlock replied, amused.   
“I can’t deny that,” John answered, but soon frowned when he saw a new hoard of people approaching them, “I don’t quite like this next part though.”  
“Neither do I,” said the detective as he, too, caught sight of the herd of journalists, “Back to Baker Street?”  
“Please,” John replied, as both men hurried off before the press could reach them.

* * *

It might have been an exaggeration, but it definitely smelt like home. The moment she stepped off the plane and into the airport, Molly knew she was back home. There was an undeniable smile on her face as she made her way past throngs of people to the baggage carousel, got her bags and made her way for the airport exit.   
  
“It even _smells_ like Christmas,” she said, turning to the man next to her.   
  
He let out a small laugh and put his arm around her.   
  
“It’s nice to see you so happy,” he said, planting a quick kiss on her cheek.  
“It’s always nice to be home for Christmas. And it’s doubly nice you’re here to join me.”   
  
The couple, with their trolley of bags, slowly made their way through the airport, hoping to catch a taxi. After weaving through the airport crowd, they arrived at a taxi stand where a queue had formed. As they waited, Molly looked around, relishing the fact that she was home. It was then that her eyes chanced upon the open newspaper of a businessman standing across from her, and it was then that she saw the headline.   
  
_He Does it Again! Genius Detective Unearths Brompton Body Snatchers_  
  
“Is that him then?” her companion whispered, leaning into Molly.  
“Hmm? Who?” she asked, whipping her head round.   
  
The man with her laughed when he took in her surprised expression.   
  
“Sherlock Holmes? Your colleague from hell?” he remarked, amused.   
“Well, he wasn’t really a colleague…” she replied, “And I might have exaggerated a little bit…”  
“You said he’d come pester you at Bart’s all the time,” said the man.   
“That is true.” she said.  
“And that he wasn’t very nice,”  
“Mmhmm…that, um, too,” she said, clearing her throat.   
“Maybe you should pay him a visit,” said the man with a laugh.  
“Whatever for?” Molly asked, taken aback.   
“Well, why shouldn’t you?”   
“I mean, I—you, we’re…together, so…”  
“That’s not an issue,” the man said, a little puzzled.  
“It’s not?”   
“Why should it be? A visit would only serve to let him know you’ve finally moved on, and on to great success, I might add. He would reel from jealousy!”  
“Jealousy?” Molly remarked, perplexed.  
“Yes, jealousy that you’ve got a great career now, and he can’t leech off from you anymore.”  
“ _Leech_ off from—Oh, _oh_ …” Molly stopped and laughed when she finally realised what he meant.   
“What’s so funny?” he asked, grinning.  
“Nothing, nothing at all,” Molly said, shaking her head smiling.   
  
The man reached for her and pulled her in to kiss her on the forehead.   
  
“As your boyfriend, I’m really proud of you, Molly.” he said softly.  
“Thanks, Brian,” she whispered, giving him a peck on the lips.   
“You don’t have to see him if you don’t want to,” he said, “It was just a matter of giving him a taste of his own medicine, that’s all.”  
“I appreciate that thought,” she said with a chuckle, “But I intend to properly enjoy our Christmas holiday.”  
“Then we’ll do just that,” said Brian, pulling her in for a tight hug. 

* * *

Molly was on the phone chatting happily in their hotel room whilst Brian was having a shower. She was making arrangements to visit people and pass them their early Christmas gifts. Molly and her new beau were booked to spend Christmas in Paris, but had swung by London first so Molly could meet with a few colleagues and friends.  
  
“So is 3.30 a good time then?” Molly said, speaking into the receiver, “Yes, yes, we’ll stay for tea, so long as no one else will be around.”  
  
She smiled as the voice on the other end spoke rapidly, delighted that Molly was home.   
  
“It’s fine, Mrs Hudson, really.” Molly continued, “I much prefer this arrangement.”  
  
Brian stepped out of the shower wearing his robe and was toweling his hair dry. He shot Molly a smile and she returned it whilst still on the phone.   
  
“We’ll see you soon then. Absolutely can’t wait.” Molly said, before finally putting the receiver down.   
  
“So, Baker Street today?” Brian asked, moving to sit on the edge of their bed.   
“Yes,” Molly said, her eyes lighting up. “I’d better get ready.”  
  
After introducing Brian to the London tube system, Molly and her new man walked up to that familiar door along Baker Street. Before she had even reached for the knocker, the door swung open and a beaming Mrs Hudson wrapped her arms around her and kissed Molly on both cheeks.   
  
“You look so well, dear!” cried Mrs Hudson, ushering the couple in.   
“Thanks, Mrs Hudson. So do you.” Molly replied.   
  
The three of them sat in Mrs Hudson’s cosy sitting room as they chatted over tea and Mrs Hudson’s mince pies. She had made them specifically just so Molly could have some.   
  
“I have missed these,” Molly said with sigh after biting generously into hers.  
“They’re really good,” Brian added, reaching for more.  
“Right, now, before I forget…” Molly said, reaching into a large paper bag.  
“You really shouldn’t have, you know, dear,” Mrs Hudson said smiling.  
  
Molly fished out a prettily wrapped gift and handed it to the beaming landlady who thanked Molly with a peck on the cheek.   
  
“Now, let’s clear these tea things, shall we?” said Mrs Hudson, reaching for the cups and saucers.   
“Let me help,” Brian offered.   
“No, no, dear, you sit down. Molly and I can manage,” said the landlady.  
  
With great insistence, Mrs Hudson managed to convince Brian to stay in his seat whilst the two ladies headed to the kitchen. As Molly sorted the cutlery into the sink, Mrs Hudson turned the kitchen radio on, as well as the tap. The cacophony caused by the radio and the loud, gushing water surprised Molly.   
  
“What are you doing, Mrs Hudson?” Molly asked, her eyebrow raised.   
  
Mrs Hudson’s smiling face dropped as she took the remaining saucer from Molly’s hands and placed them in the sink. The water continued to flow and the radio continued to blast as Mrs Hudson turned to look squarely Molly.  
  
“Are you sure you don’t want to see him?” Mrs Hudson asked, point blank.  
  
Molly was stunned and her eyes widened in response. It was a good thing Mrs Hudson had removed the saucer from her hands for she could very well have dropped it. Had they not discussed it over the phone already? That Molly was just going to drop the presents off and leave?  
  
“You could give him the present yourself,” the landlady continued.  
“But I don’t have to,” Molly replied.  
“No, I suppose you don’t. But why won’t you?” Mrs Hudson asked.   
  
There was no answer Molly could think of. How was she to explain that all she had was a feeling in her gut that not seeing Sherlock Holmes on this short trip back was probably best? She could not even explain it to herself. Molly let out a small sigh and leaned with her back against the kitchen counter.   
  
“Go see him, Molly,” Mrs Hudson urged gently.   
“I have no reason to,” Molly answered with a shrug.  
“You got him a present.”  
“Yes. Which you can easily give to him on my behalf.”  
  
It was now Mrs Hudson’s turn to sigh.   
  
“There’s no persuading you, is there? I can see it in your eyes.” The landlady remarked, reaching for a plate to scrub.   
“No, there isn’t,” Molly said with a smile. 

* * *

When evening fell, Sherlock returned to Baker Street with John after a busy day out with Scotland Yard. The adrenalin from the grave-robbing operation had not quite left John’s system and so he continued on a few more cases with Sherlock.  
  
Before the two men made it to the top of the stairs, Mrs Hudson emerged from her flat below and tapped at the banister.   
  
“Boys, you’ve both received some early Christmas presents. They’re on your study desk by the window.”   
“That’s nice,” John said. “Who dropped them off?”  
“Molly.” Mrs Hudson said plainly, before turning to head back into her flat.   
“Fancy that, Molly Hooper,” John said to himself, not realising Sherlock had already marched in to stand by the desk, staring down at the presents.   
  
On the desk were two neatly wrapped parcels, one wrapped in navy blue paper and one in white with maroon stripes. There were tags attached to them, indicating that the one with maroon stripes belonged to John, and the other to Sherlock.   
  
“Pity we haven’t got a Christmas tree in the flat. Guess I’ll have to keep this in my room.” John said, picking his up and shaking it a little.   
  
There was still not a word from Sherlock. He merely stood and stared at the remaining parcel, the navy blue one, and did not move to touch it. Instead, he began sniffing the air around it, walking over to John and sniffing John’s present as well.  
  
“What are you doing?” John asked, yanking his present back from the detective’s twitching nose.   
  
Sherlock returned to his own parcel and this time, finally reached to pick it up. He examined it all over and sniffed it all around.   
  
“Cologne…” he murmured.  
“Sorry, what?” John said, frowning as the hound of Baker Street continued his sniffing.   
“Cologne.” Sherlock repeated.  
“Right. So you’ve gone ahead and guessed your present. Of course you would.” John remarked, tucking his present under his arm, “I’m not letting you deduce mine.”  
  
All of a sudden, the detective began to rip the present open, his fingers working quickly to rip the dark blue paper off.   
  
“Sherlock! What— Christmas is not for another week.” John exclaimed, watching his best friend rip the final piece of paper off to reveal a slim black pouch with a small card set on top of it.   
  
After all that frantic dismantling, the detective had resumed being perfectly still once more. He stared at the black pouch that lay across his palm and the small card atop it. Gingerly, he picked at the card and opened to read it.   
  
_The lab at Keio designs some excellent tools. Trust the Japanese to be perfectly meticulous in everything they do. These are my favourite from the lab, so I got you a new set. They’re absolutely tremendous and I’m sure you’ll find great use for them. Happy Christmas. – Molly_  
Sherlock tossed the card onto the desk and flipped open the soft, black pouch. In it, lay a row of beautifully crafted scalpels, each of them in different shapes and sizes, all polished to perfection. They were so new Sherlock could see his reflection in every piece.  
  
“That’s not cologne,” John said, pointing to the open pouch of scalpels in the detective’s hand.  
“I never said it was,” Sherlock remarked.  
“Then why were you sprouting the word _cologne_ like a madman just now?” asked John.  
  
With a sharp exhale, the detective carefully folded the pouch back and placed his gift next to the card on the desk.   
  
“Don’t _you_ smell it?” Sherlock asked, turning to John.   
“I’m not a Basset Hound like you so, no, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  
  
Sherlock’s slim fingers rummaged among the scraps of navy blue paper and picked up a piece. He brought it to his nose and took one more sniff.   
  
“Cologne.”  
“How many more times are you going to say that?” John asked.   
“She’s got a man with her.”  
“Do you mean Molly?”  
“Who else would I be talking about?” Sherlock snapped, surprising himself.   
  
The two men stared at each other. John, with his present still tucked under his arm and Sherlock, with the shred of wrapping paper in his fingers. John took a sharp breath and pointed at his friend with a smirk.   
  
“You’re not—”  
“No…”  
“Yes, you are.” John said, nodding.   
“I’m not.” Sherlock maintained, tossing the shred of paper away.   
“Why would another man’s cologne bother you so much?” John pressed.  
“It doesn’t.”  
“I’m not stupid, Sherlock.”  
“Well…”  
“No, _shut up_. I’m not stupid, but _you_ are.”  
  
With a shake of his head, Sherlock walked away from the desk and moved to look out of the window. This was not what he was expecting to come home too. What a frightfully annoying way to end the day.   
  
“I must say I’m happy for her.” John said, “I’m glad she’s met someone.”  
“Why would you say that?” Sherlock scoffed.   
“Because he’s probably going to make her happy. I’m sure he’s a good man.” answered John.   
  
At his words, the detective whipped his head round from the window to face John.   
  
“What?” John exclaimed, frowning.   
“How do you know he’s a good man?” the detective asked with a tiny glint in his eye.   
“I’m sure he is. Molly’s a great person, she’ll definitely find herself a good match.”  
“But how do you know he’s a _good_ man? That he’s going to make her happy?” Sherlock asked, his brows furrowing.   
“Woah, hang on a minute, why are you interrogating me about this?”   
“You said you were sure he was a good man. So I wanted to know why you were so sure.”  
“I meant it just generally, Sherlock.” John replied, shaking his head, exasperated.  
“ _General_ will not do. Not for me.” remarked Sherlock with a smirk.   
  
In a flash, Sherlock strode across the living room and made for the coat rack. He swung his coat on and returned his scarf to his neck.   
  
“Where are you off to now?” asked John.   
“I need to see for myself.”  
“Goodness, Sherlock. Leave her alone.”  
“Of course not. This is necessary intervention.”  
“I’m sorry, did you just say _intervention_?”  
“Of course I did.” The detective said matter-of-factly. “He might have certain undesirable qualities that the untrained eye might not detect. I happen to be able to see right through people.”  
“Sherlock, you’re a consulting detective, not Trisha Goddard…”  
“What if he isn’t good, John? What if he isn’t suited for her? What if he doesn’t make her happy?”  
“When have you ever cared about any of that?” John asked, short of throwing his hands up in the air.  
“I’ve said it before, Molly is _necessary_. So I like to make sure she’s in good hands.”  
“She’s not your property, you know, Sherlock.”  
“I never said she was.”  
“You seem to treat her like she is,” John remarked.   
“Besides, I’m curious to know why she’s so busy falling in love when she should be working on her research.”  
  
John shook his head and laughed to himself.   
  
“What?” Sherlock asked. John’s reaction perplexed him.   
“Nothing.” John said, still chuckling, “Go. I can’t stop you, obviously. So, go.”  
  
The detective paused, contemplating John’s reaction, but John waved him away, sending him out of the flat. When John heard the door shut, he tossed the present in his hands and slowly made his way up to his room.   
  
“Molly’s not the one busy falling in love, that’s for sure.” John said to himself, amused.   
Now and again, John would laugh as he pictured the detective running all over London, trying to meddle in Molly’s affairs when he could be working on his cases. Tomorrow morning was going to be an interesting one, and John was dead curious to know what his foolish friend would have done by then.   
  
The foolish friend in question had bundled himself into a taxi and with a quick check with his homeless network, found out where her hotel was. As he sat back and took a moment, he realised her return had caught him off-guard, and it displeased him.  
  
_Why didn’t you tell me she was coming back? – SH  
  
I didn’t think it would matter to you. Besides, she was intending to keep this trip very private. – MH  
  
How would you know any of that? – SH  
  
That is a stupid question. You know I know everything. – MH  
  
Why didn’t she want me to know? – SH  
  
She didn’t think it mattered to you either. – MH  
  
_ Sherlock leaned back in the taxi and shut his eyes, pinching the top of his nose bridge as he sat deep in thought. Of course she would not have thought it mattered. She did not know he had been counting. She did not know that Sherlock had known her departure details and had been counting the moment the wheels of her plane left the tarmac.   
  
The overwhelming urge to have her _know_ , surprised him. Sherlock realised there was so much he wished she had known. He wished she had known how difficult this past year and a half had been. He wished she had known how meticulously he had been counting down. He wished she had known that his work was not the same without her, that his _life_ was not the same without her.  
  
As the taxi pulled up to the glowing glass doors of her hotel, Sherlock realised that most of all, he wanted her to know that he would have liked to see her. Even if it meant a mere handshake and a cursory Christmas greeting, he wanted to see her.   
  
“But first,” he said quietly to himself as he stared up at the tall building before him, “I need to know who this man is.” With a confident smirk on his face, he adjusted his coat, took a deep breath and made his way into the building.


	24. Chapter 24

It did not take long for Sherlock to uncover the exact details of Molly’s stay at her hotel. The efficiency of his homeless network, coupled with his ability to sneak behind momentarily abandoned computers at the hotel reception, certainly allowed him to do so. It was at these computers that he discovered the name of the man he was looking for. The record of the hotel booking had brought up the names of the guests registered in it.   
  
_Gerling, Brian T.  
Hooper, Molly_  
  
Sherlock was not aware of it, but a small smile played on his lips.   
  
“So…not _the_ Gerlings…” he said to himself as he quickly logged out of the hotel’s system. Turning his attention to his phone, Sherlock was informed that the couple was indeed still in the hotel, having returned from dinner at a restaurant. With a smirk, he glided out from behind the fancy reception counter and went on a hunt for the right uniform.   
  
When the lift doors to the seventeenth floor of the hotel _dinged_ open, a long, quiet corridor greeted the detective. He had, in front of him, his trolley, upon which sat a polished silver bucket filled with ice and a bottle of champagne. There were some white, folded hand towels beside the bucket and a pair of pristine crystal flutes. It was all terribly ornate but it suited his purposes. Casually, he strolled down the corridor, pushing the champagne cart until he saw the room number he was looking for.   
  
Clearing his throat and adjusting what looked like a waiter’s jacket, Sherlock’s hand, newly gloved in white, curled into a fist and knocked against the polished mahogany door.   
  
“Good evening, this is your complimentary bar service,” he said.  
  
There came no response. His knuckles rapped against the wood one more time.   
  
“Complimentary bar service,” he repeated.  
  
This time, Sherlock heard muffled footsteps come toward him. Judging by the weight of the steps against the carpet and the rhythm of the gait, Sherlock knew it was a certain Mr Brian Gerling that was about to open the door.   
  
“Yes? What’s this all about?” Brian asked, a little surprised to be faced with what looked like a waiter, or some kind of hotel butler.  
“A little token from the hotel, sir,” Sherlock said, gesturing to the champagne bottle.  
“Well, that’s nice,” Brian said, relaxing and opening the door a little wider, “But why?”  
“Well, it _is_ near Christmas and the hotel had gotten wind that this was a sort of romantic pre-cursor to your getaway in France…”  
“Molly, you’ve got to stop chatting with the people at the lobby…” Brian exclaimed with a laugh, turning his head back to the room.  
  
Upon the mention of her name, Sherlock heard another set of steps approach from inside the room. These were steps he recognised, and a gait he remembered.   
  
“What are you on about?” Molly asked as she emerged in the doorway.   
“This nice gentleman from the hotel here’s sent us some champagne,” Brian explained, pointing to the trolley.  
  
When Molly looked up and caught sight of the man behind the trolley, her eyes could not have opened any wider. She bit the inside of her mouth to prevent from exclaiming in shock.   
  
“Oh,” she managed to say, “How… lovely.”  
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost!” Brian exclaimed, when he turned to catch Molly’s wide-eyed expression. He saw that her eyes were fixed on the uniformed figure before them and returned his gaze to look at him too.   
“God, you look a lot like that Sherlock guy from the papers…”  
  
There was a nervous laugh from Molly as she tapped Brian playfully on the arm.   
  
“Yeah…he does… look…a lot like…him,” Molly echoed, the words tripping clumsily out of her mouth.   
“Yes, I’ve been told that on many an occasion,” Sherlock replied, smirking but with his gaze focused solely on Molly.    
“Yeah, sorry, she knows the guy and she, well…” Brian paused to chuckle.   
“She what?” Sherlock asked, his eyes swiftly moving to look at Brian.  
“She doesn’t like him that much,” Brian remarked casually before bringing his hand up to his mouth as though to whisper, “He was kind of a mean colleague. Very unpleasant, so I’ve been told…”  
“Okay, Brian, maybe let’s thank him and um, go back inside?” Molly interrupted, looping her arm through Brian’s.  
  
Sherlock gave a polite little bow and pushed the trolley in, setting the champagne cart in a nice corner of their room.  
  
“Have a good evening, Mr Gerling, Ms Hooper,” said Sherlock, turning to look at them both.   
“You too. Here, hold on a minute…” Brian said, reaching for his wallet to tip Sherlock.   
“That’s not necessary, sir,” Sherlock remarked after realising what Brian was about to do.  
“No, no, I insist, we’re really grateful for the champagne,” Brian continued, his wallet now in his hands.   
“It’s perfectly fine, sir,” Sherlock said, walking in reverse with his back to the door.   
“Well, we really appreciate it so thank you, er…”  
  
There was an awkward pause as Brian realised he could not spot a nametag on Sherlock and therefore, could not address him by name.   
  
“Jack,” Sherlock answered, surprisingly quickly.   
“Like Jack the Ripper?” Molly remarked, suddenly.   
“Yes,” Sherlock answered, turning sharply to look at her.   
“Who would have thought,” she said, staring hard at him.  
“Indeed.” He replied.   
  
Another pause ensued, more awkward than the first. Molly glared at Sherlock with the steeliest eyes. He returned the look, glazed with nonchalance and with a tinge of a haughty smirk on his mouth.  
  
“Well, um…Thank you, Jack,” Brian said, eyeing Molly and Sherlock curiously.  
“Yes, thank you, _Jack_ ,” Molly repeated, her eyes fixed on Sherlock.  
“You’re welcome. Have a pleasant evening.”   
  
With a smile and a tiny bow of his head, Sherlock left the room, closing the door quietly.   
  
Brian and Molly moved toward each other as he wrapped an arm around her and kissed the top of her head.   
  
“So, fancy some champagne?” he asked his girlfriend.   
  
Molly smiled warmly at Brian and moved to kiss him on the cheek.   
  
“I’d love some, yeah,” she said.  
  
Whistling to himself, Brian walked over to the cart and set the champagne flutes right side up. He reached for the champagne and was about to pop the bottle open when Molly’s hand rested on his arm, stopping him. She had gone to fetch her hotel room key and was tucking it into her trouser pocket as she smiled sweetly at him.   
  
“What’s the matter?” he asked.  
“Oh, it’s just…I suddenly had the thought… I need to quickly pop down to the concierge to ask if they could help me with a few of the Christmas parcels…”  
“Did something happen to them?” Brian asked, worried, as he set the bottle back into the bucket.   
“No, no, of course not,” she said with a laugh, “I just thought…I’m just feeling a bit lazy and wanted to see if the hotel had some kind of courier service, you know, so we don’t have to personally go give people their gifts…”  
“But I thought you really wanted to see your friends…”  
“The champagne’s changed my mind,” she said, with a smirk, “It’s made me want to…stay in, yes, stay in. Stay in with you…”  
“I can’t disagree with that logic,” he replied, bending to kiss her on the lips.   
  
They kissed briefly, Molly’s hand moving to hold his face. When they parted, she gave him a radiant smile and promised she would be back soon.   
  
“Just hold on to the champagne a bit, I want to get this sorted so I can…relax,” she said as she made her way to the doorway.   
“Not a problem. I’ll go have a bath then,” he said, readjusting the champagne bottle so it was set properly back in the ice. “Don’t be too long”, he said with a wink    
“I’ll be back before you know it,” Molly said, winking in return.   
  
The moment Molly was out of the door, she pressed her ear back against the door’s wooden surface to check for Brian’s movement. She listened closely for a few minutes, ascertaining that he had indeed gone to take a bath. Once she heard the faint sounds of running water she exhaled quietly in relief.   
  
Now that she was properly alone, Molly walked out to the corridor and looked left and right. He still had to be here somewhere. There was no way he was going to make all this effort to show up like that and disappear. Molly decided to make a left and began walking down the corridor. For some reason, she found herself treading as though on eggshells. When she realised this, she paused to laugh at herself. Why was she sneaking around like that? There was no need for her to be so surreptitious. She then picked up in speed and began a sort of slow jog down the corridor, her head whipping left and right every time she reached a junction where another alleyway of rooms would intersect with hers. However, there was no one. Not even a single guest emerged from his or her own room. There was absolutely nobody.   
  
“Come on,” she hissed under her breath. “I know you’re here somewhere.”  
  
The corridor was soon reaching the end of its length. There was only one last corner to turn when Molly spotted a door right at the end. It looked like some sort of stairwell or fire exit. She debated whether to turn back round and explore the whole other stretch, or to move forward to see where the stairwell would take her. With a deep breath, Molly slowed her steps down and shook her head as though to clear it.   
  
“What on earth are you doing, Molly Hooper?” she whispered to herself as she inched towards the door.   
  
Just as she moved past what looked like the final corner to reach for the door, a hand reached out to grab her, pulling her behind a wall. Molly found herself face to face with the mysterious ‘Jack’, known to her, of course, as Sherlock Holmes. He looked ridiculous, with his pompous white gloves and a waiter’s coat that was far too short for his tall frame. She cleared her throat and gestured for him to let go of her. He obliged, and dropped his hands.   
  
“Sherlock.” she greeted quietly.  
“Molly.”   
“Should I even ask what you’re doing here?”  
“That’s for you to decide.”  
  
Molly sighed and brought her hand up to her face. Sherlock stared down at her, trying to hide the slight amusement he was feeling.   
  
“Is something the matter?” she asked quietly.  
“No.”  
“Then why are you here, _Jack_? And dressed in this ridiculous piece of clothing that’s far too short for you?” she asked trying to suppress both annoyance and laughter.    
  
Sherlock looked away and scoffed, before returning to face her. There was a slight frown etched in his brows.   
  
“I came to see you.” he answered, “Isn’t it obvious?”  
“I can never be sure. Obvious works differently with you.” Molly replied, folding her arms across her chest.  
  
There was a quiet laugh and Sherlock dipped his head, looking down at his shoes. What for, he did not know but he suddenly saw no reason to lift his head again. He could feel her eyes, boring right into his skull, as she waited for him to explain himself. There was only silence that followed, however, for the detective stayed mum and kept his eyes low.   
  
“Well?” she asked, her arms still firmly folded across.   
“Well, what?” he asked back, raising an eyebrow as he slowly lifted his gaze to her.   
  
She could not help but sigh again as she looked away, her eyes absentmindedly scanning the ostentatious patterns on the carpet. There was that silence again, the impregnable silence that was turning out to be the sole characteristic of their interactions. Again, Molly tried to catch his eye, to eke out some sort of explanation or statement regarding his appearance at he hotel. The detective did look back at her, but seemed to have run out of things to say. Molly shook her head and smiled to herself. Reaching out, she gently held on to his forearm as she propped herself up to give him the lightest, quickest peck on the cheek.   
  
“I guess it’s good to see you, Sherlock,” she whispered, before letting go and walking swiftly away.   
  
Molly had hardly taken two steps when the same hand that grabbed her before, reached out to stop her again. His lean fingers wrapped themselves determinedly around her elbow, locking her in her tracks.  
  
“If it’s so good to see me, why haven’t you?” he whispered behind her as he moved to stand closer.  
  
The sudden proximity sent alarm bells ringing through her. Certain dormant sensations that she had assumed were safely forgotten had, as dormant things did, awakened. She was instantly reminded of his unique request for companionship where they had shared a bed in Mrs Hudson’s study, and his sudden invitation to dinner when he realised she had decided to leave the country. Not to mention, his bizarrely affectionate farewell to her at her flat. She shut her eyes and cursed herself internally for the flood of nostalgia that began to overwhelm her. In fact, nostalgia was probably the wrong word. It began to feel like a flood of regret, regret for having allowed such closeness, no matter how strange, and for still craving it somehow. Having Brian in her life complicated this even further. Yes, it was definitely regret she was feeling right now. Did she have an answer to his question? Yes, and no. Yes, she had one, and no, she wished it were not the answer it was.  
  
 “There was no need to,” she said at last, very quietly. Molly found herself wanting to yank her arm away, but felt a strange weakness that left her in his hold. The desire to want to stay where she was disturbed her. Again, she thought of Brian and it reminded her that whether she liked it or not, she needed Sherlock to let go.   
  
“I didn’t want to see you, Sherlock,” she continued, not facing him, but not protesting his hold on her either.   
“But you got me a present.” he argued, his voice subdued.   
“Yes, and I hope you like it,” she said with a smirk, hoping to change his train of thought.   
“I do.”  
“Did you deduce it already?” she asked, unable to resist a little laugh.  
“No, I opened it.”  
“What?” she exclaimed whipping her head back, “Sherlock, it’s meant for Christmas…”  
“Christmas, Wednesday, Saturday, tomorrow, yesterday…”  
“Fine, it’s just a _day_ like any other day, I get it. But must you be so pig-heade—”   
“I detected his cologne.”   
  
His interruption was quiet, a stark contrast to Molly’s agitated but amused response to him having prematurely opened her gift to him.   
  
“What do you mean, you detected his cologne?” she asked quietly, facing away from him again.   
“It was all your over your gift, even John’s.” he answered. There was a sense of bitterness in his voice.  
“What has that got to do with anything?” Molly asked, finally agitated enough to pull her arm away and turning to face him.   
  
She stood before him, trying not to fume or storm off. The odd thing was, Molly had no idea what she was angry about, or whom she was really angry with. Her eyes were like saucers and shone from aggravation. Sherlock’s familiar visage of stoicism returned the aggravated look in her eyes. There was something cold and calculating about his gaze. It had been a long time since Molly had seen such ice in human expression. With a bitter smirk, he looked contemptuously away before whipping his head back to face her, his eyes greyer and harder than concrete.    
  
“He seems to like you a lot but not enough to put you above himself.” he began, “Also, if you pose an interruption in any way to his flourishing career in genetics and his future hopes for a deanship, he _will_ abandon you.”  
  
He paused, as though to polish the knives in his tone. The smirk remained boldly on his lips as Molly stared back, mute and angry. With a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders, he continued, mercilessly.   
  
“He’s smart, I’ll grant you that. Looks like he’s got a good memory and good knack for numbers. But I don’t know how you can stand him, really. He seems a little too friendly, which means we can safely conclude his behaviour when inebriated, especially in the company of women. Besides, he wears far too much cologne…”  
“Enough.” Molly whispered fiercely, shutting down his tirade. “I will have none of this.”  
  
With anger boiling in her veins, but refusing to make a scene, Molly decided to simply turn around and walk away. When she did, Sherlock reached for her again, with both hands gripping her shoulders, forcing her to turn back to face him.   
  
“Sherlock, please. Enough.” she said weakly, almost pleading. This was starting to get tiring. His dramatic antics and his unnecessary unkindness were too much for her to bear. Why did she need to endure them at all?  Everything about Sherlock was ridiculous. Yes, this was what had become of their – what did one even call it? The space between them was just that, a ridiculous, pointless space between two people that had no reason to stand in front of each other.   
  
“Why didn’t you come to see me?” he asked again.   
  
The repetition of his question earlier stunned her somewhat. However, Molly knew better. She knew Sherlock, and she knew what he was doing.  All of this was one big tantrum. Molly was reminded of what he had said of her before, that she was an _asset_. If there was one thing she knew of Sherlock Holmes, it was that he was violently protective of his assets. Whether they were necessities to his work or conveniences for his life, they were his and his alone. Now that she had left and was no longer available to him, this was the consequence.    
  
She had no answer to his question, especially not the second time round. Molly smiled despondently to herself. Her gut feeling had been right. Seeing Sherlock Holmes at any point on this short trip was definitely not a good thing. It was not a good thing at all. Even if it had brought back some terribly good memories, this _right now_ was not a good thing. She suddenly regretted kissing him on the cheek, wondering what had possessed her to falter so.   
  
“I’m glad you liked your present,” she said, moving her hands to part the grip that held her.   
  
He resisted at first, refusing to let her move him, but she persisted and forcefully pried herself out of his grasp.  
  
“Did you know I was waiting?” he said, as he watched her back turn.  
  
Her figure stopped and her head tilted as she contemplated turning back to face him.   
  
“Waiting for what?” she asked, maintaining her position.  
“For you,” he said, walking towards her, “For you to come back.”  
“Why would you do that?” she asked, standing her ground.   
“I know I’ve hurt you before,” he began, “But I do care for you.”  
  
His words affirmed what Molly had concluded of their discourse. It had reached the peak of absurdity. Sherlock Holmes cared for her. Her ears had not deceived her, but perhaps the man was deceiving himself. There was no rhyme or reason for him to have ever felt this way about her. Not for so long, nor at such depth.   
  
“And what does waiting for me to come back have to do with caring for me?” she asked, finally turning to face him.   
  
There was a coldness in her eyes that shocked the detective. Sherlock swallowed nervously but continued to inch towards her.   
  
“If this is about the time that I cut you…I hope you can forgive m—”  
“Good God, Sherlock…” Molly interrupted, laughing softly. She put her hand to her face and shook her head, a resigned smile on her face.     
  
Sherlock stopped in his tracks when she spoke. He watched her, frowning, as worry crept all over him.   
  
“I cannot even count the times you have _cut_ me.”   
  
Although she had whispered, her voice was hard.  
   
“Molly, listen—”  
“I know you are unconventional, Sherlock,” she continued quietly, “I know you are different. You’re anti-social, you don’t conform, you don’t like people, you don’t like sex and you’re cynically agnostic. Everything about you _cuts_. It is all…cold, hard, and _cutting_.”  
  
Her quiet words had come out fast and furiously. Molly paused to catch her breath as old wounds began ripping inside of her, secret memories meandering through her ribcage and mocking her heart.   
  
“Your behaviour…is a hundred per cent unacceptable.” She continued, with a sullen, knowing laugh, “And you know, I can handle unacceptable. I can handle unconventional. I can handle all your quirks and eccentricities but I can no longer handle the _hurt_ , Sherlock.”  
  
She paused to catch her breath again, and Sherlock could only watch her do so. An endless silence seemed to pass between the two, enlarging the canyon that had already split them.  
  
“I would never hurt you.” he whispered, finally.   
  
There was that sullen laugh again as Molly bent forward, her hands on her knees, and laughed. She laughed quietly but it rocked her insides. Breathing was hard when thoughts and feelings charged themselves out of one’s system. When she stopped laughing, she cleared her throat and stood back up again. Her pale, lean hands smoothed the front of her blouse and returned to her sides.   
  
“You say these things, Sherlock…” she said, looking softly at him. There was gentleness about her now as the tempest began to ebb. “But that’s what hurts the most about you.”  
“That can change—”  
“I never know where I stand with you, you know?” she continued, looking up at him with the same warm smile she always used to give him.   
“I’ll tell you where you stand—” said Sherlock.  
“Go on then.” she interrupted calmly.   
“You…” he cleared his throat and racked his brains, forgetting that it was his heart that he should have been ransacking.   
“Yes?”  
“You are necessary, Molly Hooper. So, very necessary,” he said, at last.   
  
For a moment, she detected the sincerity she remembered when the space between then mattered. There was always that little pull to believe his strange expressions that seemed so heartfelt and yet so detached. However, there was also everything else. Tide after tide of his words and actions that spoke of who he really was and where she really stood with him.  
  
“Of course, I am,” she said with a knowing nod, her eyes fixed on the floor in front of her.   
“Molly…”  
“Just not necessary enough for you to keep from hurting.” she continued.  
“That is not true—”  
“Don’t come any closer,” she warned quietly, when she saw how near he had become.  
“Molly,” he whispered, “Please.”  
“I take it back, Sherlock Holmes,” she said, looking brazenly up at him once more.   
  
He studied her face but could not read anything from her expression. Her posture remained straight as her eyes rested squarely on his face.   
  
“It was _not_ good to see you,” said Molly, “Not in the least.”  
  
With those final words uttered, Molly turned round and walked calmly back to her hotel room.  


	25. Chapter 25

“Sir?”   
  
A quiet voice and the knocks that followed interrupted Mycroft’s thoughts as he sat at his desk, fresh from some rather cumbersome meetings.   
  
“Come in,” he said, recognising it as the voice of one of his secretaries.  
“This came for you,” said the soft-spoken assistant as he placed a neatly wrapped present on the large polished desk.   
“What’s this?” asked Mycroft, eyeing the rectangular package covered in maroon paper.   
“A delivery, sir, from Ms Molly Hooper,” the secretary replied.  
“How did she know where to send this to?” asked Mycroft, surprised.   
“She called the number on the card you gave her, sir. The emergency hotline?” answered the secretary.  
“Ah, of course,” Mycroft said with a tiny smile. “Most resourceful.”  
  
The secretary then excused himself and left Mycroft alone with the present. There was a small envelope attached to the top of it and Mycroft reached for it first. He slit the envelope open and pulled out a small Christmas card.   
  
_Dear Mycroft,  
  
I was going to come and give you this in person, but a few things cropped up and I decided to leave for Paris a little earlier. It would’ve been nice for you to meet Brian, but I guess we’ll leave that for another time. Have a Happy Christmas and I hope that, unlike your brother, you’ll leave your present till Christmas. Then again, you’d probably have guessed what it is. Best wishes and hope to see you the next time I’m back.  
  
Warmest regards,  
Molly  
_  
He admired the card once more before folding it and tucking it back into its envelope. Mycroft was somewhat moved, for it was a very nice gesture indeed. Unlike his brother, Molly was never shy to express her gratitude for everything Mycroft had done for her, and Mycroft did appreciate that. Underneath all that ice was still a warm, beating heart after all.   
  
Mycroft reached for the present and held it in his hands, weighing it on his palms as he tried _not_ to deduce what it was. It was obvious that it was a book of some sort, but that was as far as he let his deductions venture. Smiling to himself, he lay the gift down and picked the card out of the envelope again. Something in her writing had perturbed him and he reread it so as to isolate the source of disturbance.   
  
Scanning through her words, Mycroft tried to piece together her time back in London. It was obvious she had come to meet people and to give them presents. He was duly informed by his officers of the visit to Baker Street and to her former office at Bart’s. When Mycroft had heard that Molly and her new beau were headed to Baker Street, he had automatically assumed that she was there to see everyone – Mrs Hudson, Sherlock and John. However, there was something in her note that seemed to contradict that somehow. Perhaps it was her tone of writing, or the fact that he had observed nothing out of the ordinary in his regular surveillance of his brother.    
  
There was also the startling absence of his name. “ _Unlike your brother”_ seemed a strange way to talk about Sherlock, especially in writing. It made the older of the Holmes brothers pause to think. Had something happened that had evaded him? He instantly regretted not having more in-depth surveillance for these two. Privacy was something they obviously did not deserve if they were going to be such fools.   
  
Placing his present on the mantelpiece above his office fireplace, Mycroft put on his jacket and called for his car. It was time for a little visit to Baker Street. 

* * *

With a grateful sigh, Molly set her bags down and fell back on her luxurious double bed in their hotel room in Paris. Brian smiled at her as he gathered their bags and sorted their room out.   
  
“I’m just going to pop down and ask them about one of the museums we wanted to go to,” he said, gathering his room key, “Do you need me to get anything else?”  
“Nope,” she answered, smiling up at him. “Just come back soon.”  
  
He returned her smile and bent to kiss her before leaving the room. Molly shut her eyes and took a moment to savour the comfort of the bed and the fact that she was finally out of London. She decided to reach for her phone to check for messages when she realised she had had not only a sudden slew of messages, but a few missed calls as well.  
  
“Mycroft,” she whispered, as she scrolled through the log of missed calls.   
  
She then moved to check her message inbox and began reading his messages.   
  
_Thank you for your present. I know it’s a book, but I’ve not tried to guess anything else. – MH_  
  
That made Molly laugh. Mycroft was always so sweet to her.   
_  
I hope your trip has been well. It’s nice to know that you’re properly safe in London now, what with Ms Lancaster out of the way. – MH  
  
_ This was true. Mycroft had kept Molly up to date with some of his dealings with Evelyn now that she was incarcerated. Molly had been assured of her safety should she ever need to return to London. It was these few exchanges with Mycroft that had prompted Molly to take this Christmas trip back home. Despite the little altercation with Sherlock, she was still glad she had done so. It was just a small pity she had not been able to meet up with Mycroft this time.   
_  
I’m surprised you left for Paris so suddenly. If there is anything you need there, please don’t hesitate to contact me. In fact, you can call me directly on here if you’d like. – MH  
  
If anything is the matter, please do call me, Molly. I will always have time to help. – MH  
  
_ It made Molly smile to see how kind Mycroft was to her. It was a genuine privilege to have someone like him on her side, always watching out for her. Mycroft never invaded her personal space, nor was he rude and intrusive like his brother. If only Sherlock had learnt a thing or two from his older brother. The thought made her chuckle, for she knew Sherlock would never do something like that. He resented his brother too much. They loved each other, of course, but it was always displayed in these bitter, resentful ways. Molly had gotten used to it now, since first witnessing it when she was staying in Baker Street. She now found it highly amusing.   
  
_Did something happen? – MH  
  
To be more precise, did something happen with my brother? – MH  
  
Please let me know if I can help, Molly. Trust me, I know how bothersome he can be. – MH  
  
_ Molly could not help but smile at Mycroft’s last remark, but it did not trouble her less. There were no more texts after that one and she sighed, wondering how to respond. All of a sudden, she sat up, still clutching on tightly to her phone. Her fingers tapped mindlessly against the device as she thought about what she should say to Mycroft.  
  
_Hi Mycroft, I was travelling when you called. Sorry for the late response. – M  
  
_ She could not continue. She did not know how. What was Mycroft asking her about, really? Why was he talking to her as though a problem had occurred? What bothered her most was that he had mentioned his brother.   
  
“It’s always about Sherlock Holmes,” she muttered through gritted teeth.   
  
_It’s fine, Mycroft…_  
  
Before she could finish typing, his reply popped up on her screen.   
  
_Good to hear from you Molly. What happened at Baker Street? – MH  
_  
Molly sighed. This was starting to feel familiar. It felt like the time he was trying to dissuade her from leaving the country. Mycroft always meant well, and she knew he was looking out for her too. However, he seemed to be hoping for the impossible.  
  
_I had tea with Mrs Hudson and delivered presents. – M  
  
Was that all? – MH  
  
Yes. It was a simple little visit. Why do you ask? – M  
  
You know why I ask. – MH  
  
I do? – M  
  
Did something happen, Molly? And in case you missed what I’d asked earlier, did something happen with Sherlock? – MH  
  
_ Molly’s fingers hovered over the screen. The words flashed before her and continued to flash inside her mind, drawing up reluctant memories. She too asked herself the same question. Did something happen with Sherlock? She drew a sharp breath and fell back into bed, shutting her eyes as she let both arms slacken by her sides. Moments later, her eyes popped upon. Her gaze was firm and her mouth, pursed, in a tight, determined line.   
  
_No, Mycroft. Nothing happened with your brother. – M_

* * *

The car pulled up to Baker Street and Mycroft got out swiftly. With his trusty umbrella in his hand, he made his way up to the Baker Street flat that housed his brother and best friend.    
  
“Hello, Mycroft. Fancy seeing you here.” John said, emerging from the kitchen with a drink in his hand.   
“John,” Mycroft greeted with a simple nod. His eyes scanned the flat and knew instantly that his brother was not home, or at least not yet.   
“Staying for dinner?” John asked, eyeing Mycroft as he eyed the state of the flat, “Though there really isn’t anything I can offer you.” John said with a chuckle.  
“Very kind of you, but, no, thank you.” Mycroft said with a quick smile.   
“If you’re looking for Sherlock…”  
“He’s busy with the Severn Seven, yes, I know…” Mycroft interrupted.   
“’Course you’d know,” John said with a laugh. “Anyway, I’ll be in my room if you need me.”  
“Thank you, John.” Mycroft said sincerely as he settled himself onto the sofa to wait for his brother. 

* * *

  
The detective was grateful for the sharp, cold wind that evening as he waited for a cab outside St. Bart’s. It proved a pleasant reprieve from having been hotheaded all evening. He had just run some tests on the bodies found in the River Severn, which concretised what he had already deduced on site the day before, that it was no suicide pact as the media had reported. DI Greg Lestrade did not need the convincing, for he knew to trust the consulting detective. It was the other superintendents and the new forensic team in Scotland Yard that were proving difficult. In short, the detective had just ended a very difficult day where the most difficult part had not been the seven gruesome bodies discovered, but the persuasion of fools that these were, in fact, seven murders.   
  
“What’re you doing here standing in the cold?” said the detective-inspector who suddenly appeared beside.   
“Waiting for a taxi,” mumbled the detective, “I thought it was obvious.”  
“Yeah, what I meant was, didn’t I offer to take you home just now?”  
“I don’t sit in police cars, remember?” the detective replied.   
“But it’s been a long day, Sherlock, and you don’t look all right,” said Greg.  
  
The detective scoffed at Greg’s last statement and pulled his coat tighter around himself. He had made the foolish choice of leaving the flat without a scarf and he was now paying for it. His initial gratitude for the cold air was staring to wane as the wind slowly picked up.   
  
“Look, Sherlock, let’s just get you home,” said Greg, “You’ve had a rough day and you don’t look yourself,”  
“Why do you keep commenting on my appearance, Detective-Inspector?” Sherlock asked sharply, “It makes you sound enamoured with me.”  
  
Greg burst into a hearty laugh at Sherlock’s remark.  
  
“I didn’t think you’d know what being _enamoured_ was.” Greg replied, chuckling, “Sounds so strange when _you_ say it…” Greg shook his head, continuing to chuckle in amusement.   
  
Sherlock remained silent and ignored Greg completely, keeping an eye out for a cab. Unfazed, Greg walked up to stand in front of the rather sullen-looking consulting detective and took a good look at him.   
  
“What’s the matter with you?” Greg asked.   
“Nothing’s the matter.” answered Sherlock curtly.   
“You don’t sleep…so it’s not fatigue,” Greg continued, as he scrutinised the detective.   
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes as the silver-haired detective-inspector continued his inspection of him.   
  
“You don’t eat, so you can’t be hungry. You only care about your cases, so nothing else should be troubling you. You don’t care about people, so no _one_ is troubling you…”  
“What do you mean I don’t care for people?” Sherlock asked suddenly, staring hard at Greg.   
“Well, I mean, people are just people, aren’t they?” Greg said with a shrug, “Just empty cases of skin filled with breath and a bit of blood, nothing to bother too much with, eh?”  
“I didn’t know you had such flair for words,” Sherlock scoffed, lifting his gaze to look past Greg.   
“Not my words, mate, they’re yours,” Greg said with a laugh, “You ramble about things like that all the damn time.”  
“Do I?” the detective asked coldly, staring straight ahead.   
“As I said,” Greg said, tugging his own coat tighter around himself, “All the damn time.”

* * *

From the moment the detective stepped out of his cab, he eyed the door warily and knew straightaway that his brother was in. With a quiet sigh, he made his way into the building and up the stairs to his flat. Someone had made Mycroft a cup of tea. Judging by the neatly arranged row of digestives on a little tray, it was Mrs Hudson who had done so.   
  
“She may be a little… _loopy_ at times, your word, not mine, but she does make a splendid cup of tea,” came the distinct, smooth voice that was his brother’s. It was the smoothness that grated on the detective’s ears most. There was something cocky about it and he hated it so.   
  
With sharp strides, Sherlock walked into his flat, hanging his coat up in one smooth movement before heading to his desk in the living room.   
  
“What are you doing here?” he asked quietly.   
“Can't you tell from the tea and biscuits?” Mycroft asked back, taking another sip of his tea.   
“You’re here to resume your diet?” Sherlock replied, raising his eyebrow to Mycroft.  
“I’m here to see you,” Mycroft said, gracefully responding in the face of his brother’s rudeness.  
“Whatever for?” Sherlock asked, seating himself at his desk.   
  
The brothers faced one another with the span of living room between them. It was deadly quiet with only the sounds of the occasional nighttime traffic outside. Mycroft dusted his hands and wiped them carefully on his handkerchief. Sherlock remained mum, with his hands clasped in front of him on his desk. His eyes did not once leave his older brother, as Mycroft continued to fuss with his handkerchief. When Mycroft was done, he looked casually up and met Sherlock’s gaze.   
  
“Would you like the preamble, or shall I just get to the point?” asked Mycroft, looking calmly at his brother.  
“I’m surprised you’ve let me choose,” Sherlock replied sarcastically, “I was prepared to have to stay up all night.”  
“Preamble it is then,” Mycroft said, smiling wryly.  
  
The silence continued as Sherlock stared hard at his brother, awaiting the reason for his presence in Baker Street. Mycroft cleared his throat and contemplated moving to sit across from his brother at his desk, but changed his mind and remained where he was on the sofa.   
  
“I received a present earlier this evening,” Mycroft began.   
“I didn’t know you had a mailing address,” Sherlock interrupted.   
“It was from Molly,” Mycroft continued, “Whom I believe had the intention of coming to give it to me herself, but had her plans disrupted.”  
  
There was a flash in Sherlock’s eyes, as Mycroft had expected. Deciding to push a little further, he continued to speak.   
  
“Did she come to see you?” Mycroft asked plainly.  
“Why would she come to see me?” the detective asked back.   
“I was told she had come to Baker Street…”  
“Then you would have been _told_ , that she deliberately came when I wasn’t going to be around.” Sherlock interrupted sharply.  
  
The cold air outside could no longer compare to the sudden iciness that filled the room. Sherlock’s cutting reply had left Mycroft stunned, but not surprised. With the same wry smile, Mycroft nodded gently, letting his brother’s words sink in.    
  
“What are you so pleased about?” Sherlock asked, resentful of that knowing look again on his brother’s face.  
  
Mycroft continued smiling as he drummed his fingers against the knees of his trousers.   
  
“Did _you_ go to see her then?” Mycroft asked quietly.   
“What does that matter?” Sherlock replied, glancing out of the window.  
“It matters a lot…” Mycroft said, drawing the words out slowly.  
“Indulge me.” Sherlock replied, turning back to glare at his brother.  
“You see, Sherlock, I want to know why she cut her London trip short.”  
  
There was a pause. This time, it was Sherlock’s turn for Mycroft’s words to sink in.   
  
“Go on.” he said softly.  
“I was supposed to receive my present in person,” said Mycroft, getting up from the sofa, “Instead, I got an apology in a Christmas card and her present delivered. So tell me, did you go and see her?”  
“Don’t you have me followed?” Sherlock said, scoffing.   
“Not recently, no. Which is my mistake, really. I hadn’t realised the depth of foolishness you were capable of…”  
“What is your point, Mycroft?” Sherlock interrupted, almost bellowing at his brother.   
  
The same icy silence resumed between the brothers as Sherlock continued to glare at his brother. Mycroft, on the other hand, appeared calmer than ever and moved to stand in front of his brother’s desk.   
  
“I’m going to let go of the fact that you haven’t properly answered any of my questions,” Mycroft said, “But I won’t let you get away without answering this one.”  
“You sound like you’re threatening me,” Sherlock said with a laugh.   
  
He stared up, incredulous, at the tall, looming figure of his older brother that stood before him. At first, Sherlock was amused. Mycroft was hardly menacing. Everyone cowered in fear at Mycroft, but not Sherlock. This time, however, there was something different about Mycroft. Sherlock could sense that his brother had had enough of nonsense and would tolerate no more. Unknowingly, he swallowed slightly nervously as Mycroft continued to stare back, coolly and calmly at him.   
  
“What…what is it?” Sherlock asked, a little uncertainly.   
“You _will_ answer this question, Sherlock…”  
“Yes, yes, what is it…stop being dramatic,” Sherlock remarked, flustered as he eyed his brother warily.   
  
Mycroft cleared his throat and took a step back, his gaze at his brother completely unrelenting.  
  
“Do you want to see her?” Mycroft asked.   
  
Sherlock Holmes had experienced an explosion in his flat once. Not quite in his flat, but it had been the faux gas leak from across the street that ripped through his flat, courtesy of Moriarty. It had not been pleasant, but for the moment, it seemed a most splendid way out of answering his brother. He did not want to answer this. This was a question meant only for him to ask himself. It was a private question, with its private answer for all sorts of private reasons. Now, his brother was asking this very thing, point blank.   
  
_Do I want to see her?_  
  
It was his mind now that echoed his brother’s question. What a familiar echo it was. It would call him from time to time in the lead up to her departure those two years ago. It would come to him in whispers whenever he visited Bart’s and some of her former colleagues would mention her to him. Just recently, this same question charged at him, not as a vague echo, but ringing like alarm bells, from the moment he saw the gift from her on his desk.   
  
“Do I want to see her?” he murmured, articulating the question out loud for the first time.   
  
Mycroft sighed as he watched Sherlock get distracted from his own mind, switching off from his surroundings, thus neglecting to answer the question. Turning on his heels, Mycroft slowly made for the door, but not before saying one final thing to his brother.   
  
“Sherlock?” he said, turning around.   
“Hmm?” Sherock responded, looking up at his brother.   
“If it’s a yes, ignore me as I walk of out of this flat. If it’s a no, make a scathing remark from your usual repertoire.” Mycroft said, looking intently at his brother.   
  
Once again, the brothers kept their eyes on each other, with silence filling slowly between them. Mycroft tilted his head slightly to the left, as though reiterating his desire for a response. The eyes of his younger brother were clear and wide, gazing back at him like plain marbles. There was a small twitch in the corner of Sherlock’s top lip. Mycroft detected it but did not remark upon it. Then, ever so slowly, a tiny smirk appeared on the detective’s lips as he turned his head, ever so slowly, to look out of the window. There were no rude last words, nor any sarcastic parting comments. There was only the silence of Sherlock’s answer. Mycroft nodded in response, smiling to himself, as he turned round and slowly made his way out of the flat.  

* * *

It was past midnight. Or maybe it was not. Molly was not sure but she knew it was not the time for anyone to be calling or sending texts.  
  
“It better not be work…Don’t they know we’re on holiday…” Brian muttered sleepily, burying his face in his pillow.   
“Sorry love,” Molly whispered, “I’ll take a look at what it is and turn it off.”  
  
Carefully, with her phone in hand, Molly snuck out of their bed and put her coat on so she could head out to their hotel balcony. The night wind was refreshing and rushed against her cheeks that had been warmed from being all tucked up in bed. Perhaps it was the sudden contact with cold wind, or the sudden movement from getting out of bed, but Molly’s heart was racing.   
  
_I spoke with Sherlock. – MH  
  
He didn’t tell me much. As usual. – MH  
  
You may be in another country, Molly, but I know you lied to me. – MH  
  
You say nothing happened. And he didn’t answer when I asked if he went to see you. MH  
  
I know something happened. – MH  
  
Whatever it is that happened, however, is now inconsequential.  
  
He wants to see you, Molly. – MH   
  
Do you want to see him? – MH  
  
_ There was a ringing in Molly’s ears and it was not from the cold wind that howled its way past her face. Instead, it was the result of her heart drumming up her pulse so hard that it was all she could hear.  It looked like there were still two messages left to open but Molly did not want to hear anymore from Mycroft. She simply had not the energy to hear him repeat himself again. He was just going to say the same things, that she should either come back to London, or have him arrange for her to see Sherlock. These were all the things she did not want to do.   
  
“Or do I?” she asked herself quietly.   
  
Her fingers tapped at the screen of her phone mindlessly, sending the row of messages bouncing up and down as she scrolled. While her fingers fidgeted about the screen, her eyes caught something unusual. She stopped, and stared and brought the phone right up to her eyes. Gingerly, she extended a tentative index finger to scroll gently and carefully this time, letting her eyes scan through the list of messages that had invaded her device.   
  
“Mycroft,” she gasped softly, “What have you done?”  
  
Molly had been mistaken. The last two unopened messages were _not_ from Mycroft Holmes. She shut her eyes and took a deep, calculated breath. Had her eyes deceived her? Molly kept her eyes firmly shut, and counted to five. When she opened them to look at her phone again, her heartbeat drowned everything out. No, her eyes had not deceived her.   
  
_Molly. – SH_  
  
Now, it was her pulse that proved she could no longer deceive herself. There, clear as day, was his name, _Sherlock Holmes._ She did not want to read what he had to say. She did not want to speak to him. However, her pulse told her otherwise.   
  
_Would you like to have coffee? – SH_


	26. Chapter 26

Mycroft was in two minds as to whether to head to the Diogenes Club for some quiet time, or whether to head back to one of his secret, palatial offices. There was that cumbersome trade meeting he still had to think about, amongst a plethora of issues, national _and_ international, that he had on his hands. His desire for a taste of some decent whisky made the decision for him – The Diogenes Club, it was.   
  
As the car drove silently through the well-lit streets of London, he let his mind idle for a bit. Idling, by Mycroft’s standards, simply meant taking in the sights as they were, not thinking beyond the primary layer. For those few moments, he ignored every nook and cranny he passed where he knew a surveillance camera existed. Mycroft enjoyed the street lights, the calm, glowing structures that offered a simple functionality, ignoring the fact that each had a device planted within them by the Ministry of Defence for the purposes of national security.   
  
He let his gaze shift up as he stared out from his window and into the night sky. It was speckled, as though strange glitter had been flung from earth, and now clung hopelessly to black velvet. Mycroft’s in-depth knowledge of both the universe and the classified government work he was involved in meant he could distinguish the various constellations from the secret satellites that nestled amongst them. For the busiest man in England, it was a rare pleasure to look only at the stars for once.   
  
This pleasure, however, was soon interrupted by a phone call. It was another of Mycroft’s secretaries from his Home Affairs HQ. Incidentally, this was where Molly had been housed when recuperating under his protection. He picked the call up within two rings, as was his habit. As he listened to what his secretary had to say, his eyebrows began to knit into a tight, irritated frown.  
  
“Didn’t we talk to them about this?” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We had given them specific instructions not to run stories like these anymore… No, no, it has nothing to do with context.” Mycroft remarked, frustrated. “So what, if _they’re no longer associated_? It’s not the association that matters…” He paused, sighing, as his secretary continued to update him. “The entire purpose was to erase her from any form of media, rubbish tabloids included. So you can tell them that it’s _not_ about the fact that they’re also reporting on Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes is talked about _all_ the time in every newspaper and tabloid there is,” he continued.   
  
A few moments of silence passed as the secretary continued, informing Mycroft of all the recent reports they had collected, and suggesting possible action to take. As he processed what was being said, Mycroft shut his eyes, one hand over his forehead as his mind spun once more. This was certainly not the night for admiring a beautiful night sky. In any case, Mycroft had certainly lost the desire to.  
  
“Give them an ultimatum.” Mycroft said, at last. He looked up and his eyes were calm, just as his voice no longer registered agitation. “If they print even her _name_ , I will have the entire publishing house shut down and never heard of again. They are to retract all current publications that carry this utterly pointless tabloid fodder before rush hour tomorrow and if I see even a scrap of it beneath the bottom of a homeless man I will shut them down as well.”  
  
Mycroft paused, taking a steady breath to compose himself.  
  
“Please inform them as I have instructed, and do the necessary follow ups.” he said smoothly and steadily before hanging up with a quick swipe of his thumb across the phone screen.   
  
‘Ridiculous,” he muttered to himself, as he placed his phone into his pocket. Why was the world still obsessed with Evelyn Lancaster? His phone buzzed again and he reached for it, exhaling despondently again. The secretary had just sent Mycroft a series of images, all of which were scans of a particular tabloid paper that was scheduled to hit newsstands the next morning. There were recycled and doctored photos of Evelyn Lancaster and his brother, back when they were both on her case. The headline undid everything Mycroft had wanted, which was to wipe every trace of Evelyn Lancaster off of London, and frankly, off of England’s radar. In big, bold typeface, the headline for tomorrow screamed:  
  
_L’AUTRE PIED LOVEBIRDS: WHERE IS EVELYN LANCASTER?  
LONESOME DETECTIVE SPARKS RUMOURS OF SPLIT_  
  
“Surely they have a million other pieces of rubbish they could write about? Is that not what tabloid papers do?” muttered Mycroft to himself. “Evelyn Lancaster is the oldest news there is…”  
  
The next few minutes were spent fighting this tiny little fire that had broken out. It was a small matter and certainly no threat to Mycroft, but it meant time wasted. Time wasted on foolish things displeasured Mycroft greatly. Nevertheless, the right people were spoken to, the relevant warnings were sent out and the threats, made ready to be realised should his words be disregarded.   
  
When he was done, he returned his phone to his pocket and was glad things were back under control. It was times like these that Mycroft marvelled at the irony of his work. He had hoped that being in the highest of governments, he would be surrounded by less foolery and away from as much noise as possible. Obviously, he had miscalculated. Just then, his pocket buzzed with another incoming call. Mycroft was almost tempted to ignore it but could not risk letting anything slip past him. Reaching into his pocket for what felt like the umpteenth time, Mycroft answered the call swiftly.   
  
“Wow. It’s true. You _do_ pick up after two rings.” came the voice on the other side of the line.   
  
It was a voice he had not been expecting, but was a very pleasant surprise indeed.    
  
“Molly.”  
“Mycroft.”  
“This is an unusual hour…”  
“I have an unusual request.” interrupted Molly.  
“Let it at least be of amusement,” he said, massaging the bridge of his nose again, “It’s been a challenging day.”  
  
There was a laugh at the end of the line and it brought a small smile to his weary face.   
  
“As a matter of fact, Mycroft, it just might.” Molly replied.   
“Wonderful,” he answered, smiling on his end, “I’m all ears.”  
“Are you any good at throwing parties?”

* * *

The moment he had sent it, Sherlock leapt out of his chair and was, quite literally, in a state of panic. Racing up the stairs, he found himself outside of John’s room, slamming his knuckles against the door.   
  
“John….John…John!” he exclaimed through the door.   
“What…what…. _what_ , Sherlock?!” John replied angrily, swinging his door open  
“John…”  
“Yes, Sherlock, it’s…god knows what time it is…what’s happened?” John asked, scratching the side of his face as he let out a yawn.   
“I’ve…I…”  
  
When John rubbed his eyes and took a good look at his best mate, he was a little taken aback to see how wide Sherlock’s eyes were and the obvious agitation he was in.  
  
“Sherlock, calm down and tell me what’s happened,” he said, gesturing for them to get out of his doorway and to walk back downstairs. Sherlock nodded, and the two men hurriedly made their way back down and headed for the kitchen. John poured himself a glass of water and sipped it, clearing his throat while he studied his flat mate. The detective had begun to pace the tiny kitchen space, his mobile phone clasped in his hands that were fixed behind his back.   
  
“That’s a little um, unnerving…this…” John said, gesturing to the detective as he sat himself at their dining table, “this…very-quick-walking-in-a-narrow-space thing that you’re doing…”  
“John…”  
“ _Yes_ , Sherlock, for the _hundredth_ time, what’s the matter?”  
  
The detective appeared flustered, and it amused John a little more than it should have. Clearing his throat and remembering to be a good friend, John asked Sherlock again if he was all right.   
  
“What…what do you think this means, if I write something…like this?” he asked, his question fractured by awkward pauses.   
  
The glowing screen of his phone was shoved into John’s face. John reached for it and moved it to a more reasonable distance where the phone did not touch his nose. He scanned the text in question and said it aloud.  
  
“Would…you…like to have coffee…” John read, word by word. He looked up at the detective, puzzled. “Did you write this?”   
“Well, obviously!” Sherlock replied, “You’re looking at my conversation with Molly.”  
“Molly? Molly Hooper?” John asked.  
“Yes, yes,” answered Sherlock with an irritated wave of his hand, “Molly Hooper.”  
“You’re…talking to her?” John asked again, setting the phone down. He was tempted to scroll up and read all their previous exchanges but decided against it.   
  
A raised eyebrow and a tight-lipped expression were what John received in response to his question. This seemed very out of the blue, and it was a very extraordinary sight indeed, to see the famous detective so flustered. John was utterly clueless about what could have possibly transpired to have led to such a state. It seemed Sherlock felt the same way. He reached for his phone that John had set back on the table and glared at it.   
  
“She hasn’t replied.” the detective said quietly.  
“Well, when did you send it?”  
“1:47 am.”  
“Right, and it’s…” John turned to glance at the kitchen clock, “1:51am…”  
“What is the standard time for a reply?” Sherlock asked, his eyes staring hard at the screen, “Four minutes…is that too long? Normal? Short?”  
“Sherlock…she’s probably in shock…” John said with a laugh.   
“In shock? Why?” the detective asked, looking up suddenly.   
“Because…it’s… you! Asking her for coffee! And not for, you know, a diseased spleen or punctured lungs, things like that…” John exclaimed, waving both hands into the air.   
  
Sherlock let John’s words sink in as he thought hard about why he had even written what he had in the first place. What had possessed him to ask her such a question? There was something familiar about the question, as though he had heard it somewhere. He remembered using it once, and probably on her. It had something to do with an apology. He had obviously deleted it but fragments of it had lingered. Had _she_ not been the first one to have asked this very question? Yes, the memory was returning to the detective now. There had been a corpse, a riding crop, bruises to note and, for some reason, her tentative little smile swam right alongside the other memories.   
  
“Why would I ask her to have coffee?” Sherlock asked, murmuring the question to himself.  
“I don’t know, mate. Why _would_ you ask her for coffee?” John asked in return, sitting forward with his hands clasped on the table. “Besides, doesn’t she have a boyfriend now or something? They came to see Mrs Hudson that day when—”   
“It was Mycroft…” interrupted the detective.  
“Sorry, what? Mycroft?”  
“Yes,” Sherlock continued. He was staring into space now. “He’d asked me…”  
  
The sentence hung in mid-air, unfinished. John raised an eyebrow and leaned forward, in anticipation for the rest of the words.  
  
“Well? What did he ask you?” John said, breaking the sudden silence.   
“He asked if I wanted to see her.”   
  
The words came out rapidly, and again, they were very unexpected. John was stunned. His eyes were wide as he processed what Sherlock had just said.   
  
“And so you asked her for coffee?” John said.   
“Yes.”  
“Okay…”  
“Why did I do that, John?”  
“Haven’t you just answered your own question?”  
“No. Have I?” asked Sherlock, his brows furrowed.   
  
John was positive that smoke was coming out from Sherlock’s temples. The cogs in that detective mind were spinning, but in a direction opposite to the workings of his entire mechanism.   
  
“Look, Sherlock, I’m not a consulting detective—” John began  
“No, you’re not…”  
“Let me finish.   
“Right. Sorry.”  
“You asked me what it meant, if you asked Molly for a coffee… Was that your original question?” John asked, folding his arms.   
“Yes…”  
“And then you proceeded to tell me about what Mycroft had asked you.” he continued, leaning against his seat.  
“Yes.”  
“So, in that case…I’m going to ask you Mycroft’s question again.”  
“Why?” Sherlock asked sharply.  
“Because the answer to _that,_ Sherlock, is your answer. The real answer.”  
“The real answer to what?”  
  
John sighed and rubbed his temples. The cluelessness of this brilliant detective, who made his living off looking for clues, was as exasperating as it was ironic.  
  
“Sherlock,” said John.  
“Yes?”  
“Do you want to see Molly again?” he asked.   
  
It was the second time the detective had been faced with this question. This time, it seemed Sherlock was awakening to his own answer. His throat went dry all of a sudden, and he could feel the tiny jolts in his chest from the sudden irregularity of his heartbeat. Then came the unexpected recollection of his visit to her hotel, and after that, the unpleasant recollection of Brian. When the face of Molly’s beau swam into view, the detective actually grimaced, which did not go unnoticed by John.   
  
“I don’t understand that facial expression…” John remarked slowly, as he continued observing Sherlock.  
  
The surprise wave of sentiment began to ebb as logic barged its way back into Sherlock. Brian had reminded Sherlock of the hard fact that his own sentiment did not matter.  The current circumstance rendered everything that Sherlock felt inconsequential.   
  
“What is the point of wanting to see her,” Sherlock answered pensively, “when I can’t?”  
  
John rubbed his tired eyes and sighed into his hands.   
  
“You’re not answering the question, Sherlock.”  
“What does it matter…” Sherlock muttered, finally taking a seat.  
“It matters more than you know,” John answered.  
“My mind doesn’t usually feel so…messy…” said Sherlock, running his hands roughly through his hair.  
“This is not about your mind, Sherlock, “John remarked with a laugh, “And if you answer my question, it will clear things up for you.”  
“I don’t see how it will cl—”  
  
Their conversation was interrupted by Sherlock’s mobile phone that buzzed softly, rotating a few millimetres as it did so. The two gentlemen stopped, stared at the device, then at each other. As the phone buzzed another time, rotating another tiny millimetre to its left, Sherlock swallowed nervously, whilst John bit down an amused smile.  
  
“D’you want me to—”  
“Shh! I think that’s Molly…”  
“Yes, I know it’s Molly which is why I asked if you wanted me to get that for y—”  
  
The answer to John’s question was answered in the form of Sherlock’s lean, violinist fingers swooping down on the phone that lay between them. He grabbed it, swiped swiftly at the screen and glared at it as the glowing screen reflected off his pupils. John watched as Sherlock took in a sharp intake of breath, frowned, blinked rapidly, only to start frowning again. For any ordinary person, this would have been an unusual way to display what Sherlock was currently feeling. However, John knew Sherlock, and he knew better.   
  
The detective was utterly ecstatic. He was terrified, hence all the twitches and frowns, but there was no doubt that Sherlock was terribly pleased.  
  
“Come on, don’t make me have woken up for nothing,” John said with a chuckle, “What did she say?”  
  
Sherlock pursed his lips and seemed to be racking his brains for something to say. He gave up, placing his phone on the table and sliding it across to John’s eager hands. John brought the phone up to his eyes and read the much-awaited reply.   
_  
I’ll see what I can do. – M  
  
You’ll hear from me soon. Promise. – M  
_  
When John read the contents of Molly’s reply, he affirmed that Sherlock’s delight was real. Behind the wide, steely glaze and the unmoving mouth, John could detect the tiniest smirk. It was a smirk of victory. Normally, it annoyed John, but tonight, he could not help but partake in a little of his friend’s victory. In fact, he was almost proud of Sherlock. It was nice to know he had a heart.   
  
“So, do you want to see her?” John asked a second time as he slid the phone back to Sherlock.  
  
A smile finally cracked, appearing faintly on the detective’s lips.  
  
“I most certainly do,” he answered, retrieving his phone and swiftly exited the kitchen. 

* * *

It was a little outside of his usual portfolio, but it was certainly a task that Mycroft could undertake with utmost perfection. Furthermore, it was, as Molly had promised, a reprieve from his rather challenging evening. Her request was something he acceded to with great delight.   
  
“How official do you need it to be?” Mycroft had asked her.   
“Oh, just a little bit of top brass here and there…” Molly had replied, amused, “Something to keep him sufficiently occupied.”  
“How long do you need him occupied for?”   
“How long do you think is…appropriate?”  
  
Mycroft could not help but smirk at the recollection of her words. _Appropriate_. Nothing about what she was suggesting was appropriate. It was obvious she knew. Otherwise, why go to such lengths? The moral compass within Mycroft pointed to the fact that despite Molly’s genuinely innocent motive, this was still a rather devious little plan they were concocting. He had asked her a few times if she was sure about this, that perhaps she need not be so ‘cloak-and-dagger’ about the matter. However, she was adamant. This was important, she had told Mycroft, and because no one else would understand how important this was, it needed to be done this way. Mycroft was her only hope to do so.  
  
“I have to do this, Mycroft.” she had said.  
“I suppose…”   
“It may seem an unfair way of doing things, but it’s only fair that I do so. You know what I mean?”  
“Yes, I do. Like you said, it’s only fair. ” Mycroft had replied, “I can only hope it… _concludes_ according to plan.”  
“So do I…”  
“You really could just go and see him, you know—”  
“No, Mycroft, you know why this has to be done this way.”  
“I am aware. You can’t be distracted. And you can’t have interruption.”  
“Exactly.”  
  
There was much to plan and quite a few personal phone calls that Mycroft had to make. He was astounded at the lengths _he_ was going to as well. He laughed quietly to himself as he sent word out to his aides to kick start all the logistics required. Mycroft then began crafting out a separate request to one of his secretaries to draw up the specific list of ‘top brass’ that Molly’s plan required.   
  
“Let’s see now…top geneticists, university board members…” Mycroft murmured as he typed, “Heads from the Royal Society of Medicine…”  
  
The Diogenes’ Club came into view just as Mycroft sent out this final instruction. Returning his phone to his pocket where he hoped it would stay at least for the next few hours, Mycroft then stepped out of his car and looked forward to a rewarding glass of whisky.   
  
As he slowly made his way through the club’s quiet and grand corridors, he could not help but look forward to what Molly had asked of him. Yet, despite his best efforts, Mycroft could not resist the hope that a different outcome would emerge. He tried very hard to respect her intentions, but, really, he knew instinctively it would never go to plan. He shook his head, smiling, when he realised how wrong people were to assume that they knew better. Surely they knew by now, that he was _never_ wrong.   
  
“Still, I’ll do what I’m asked of. No more, no less,” said Mycroft as he settled into his burgundy armchair. 

* * *

“Are you excited about tonight?” Molly asked as she adjusted Brian’s bow tie.   
“Yes, and no…” he answered, “I’m mostly terrified now.”  
“But it’s a good terror, yes?” she said, planting a quick kiss on his cheek.  
“Yes, it is,” he said with a laugh, “It’s a massive opportunity, and I have you to thank.”  
  
Brian smiled gratefully at Molly before pulling her towards him. Molly sighed contentedly as she leaned against his crisp shirt. She was happy to do this for him. Despite the theatrics that were about to go on this evening, she was genuinely happy she could present him with this opportunity. Molly kissed him once more. It was fierce, and her hands clung to the lapels of his jacket. There were mixed feelings behind that kiss. There was a hint of anger, a twinge of guilt, a touch of anxiety that all intertwined with the desperation that stemmed from an overwhelming storm of confusion.  
  
There was nothing to be guilty about, nothing to be anxious about, and certainly nothing to be confused about. The fact that these emotions whirled like a snowstorm inside her was what angered her the most. Still, Molly managed to keep it all in. Her smile was in place, perfect and pristine like the jewelled drop-earrings she wore. Brian looked adoringly at Molly who was dressed to perfection in her sculpted, oriental-inspired black number. It was dark, embellished with scattered lace details and suited her marvellously.   
  
“You’ll be wonderful tonight,” she murmured, planting a gentle kiss on his nose.  
“Thank you, love,” he replied, his hands not leaving her waist.   
  
Molly smiled up at him, letting her eyes rest on the face of her lover. This was a good thing, Tonight was a good thing. Tonight, she would close a chapter of her life, and in doing so, open a new chapter up for Brian. This was what she wanted. They were going to have great careers, and a great life, together, she and Brian.   
  
“So, Dr Gerling, are you ready to meet with some of the best people in your field?” she asked, moving to stand by his side and looping her arm through his.   
“I’ve never been more ready,” he replied, beaming, “A chance of a lifetime.”  
“A chance of a lifetime,” she echoed.  
  
All decked out and ready, the pair stepped out and made their way to where a great benefit was being hosted. It was going to be an evening of fundraising, where the best and brightest minds in genetics would also meet to network and mingle. This was where Brian was hopefully going to meet a few elite names in his field, possibly gleaning some great research opportunities in the process. Naturally, when Molly told him, he was both elated and mortified. Elated at the thought of being amongst some of his personal heroes in science, and mortified by the very same notion.   
  
However, whatever nerves Brian may have had before, now ebbed away. As they stepped into the beautifully decorated venue, the sheer scale of the event seemed to send a sort of adrenalin through him. Contrary to what he had feared, he quite quickly forgot his nerves with every famous face he could spot in the room.   
  
Molly, on the other hand, secretly marvelled at how Mycroft had transformed the place. It certainly bore no resemblance to what it usually was in the daytime. With its large glass windows framed with exquisitely designed decorative lighting, and the scent of the best champagne in the air, he had spared no expense. How did he manage to pull it off in such little time?   
  
Speaking of time, Molly checked her watch surreptitiously whilst she roamed the room with Brian beside. He was still feeling apprehensive but she knew he would warm up in no time. To kick things off, she sent him off to get them some drinks.   
  
_Twenty minutes more, Molly. No need to rush_ , she thought.   
  
Just across from one of the wine bars that had been set up, she spotted a professor that she had specifically told Mycroft to invite.   
  
“Brian,” she whispered, nudging him when he returned with two glasses of golden bubbly in hand.  
“What’s the matter?” he whispered back.  
“Look,” she said, smiling as she tilted her head in the direction of the professor.   
“That’s…”  
“Yes,” she said, beaming up at him.  
“No…” he exclaimed, staring back at her.   
“Yes!” she chuckled.  
  
It amused Molly to see Brian so dumbstruck and rooted to the spot. He was not often rendered speechless, but it seemed she had succeeded. Molly moved to stand behind him and playfully shoved him forward.   
  
“Have a sip of your bubbly, and go talk to him,” she whispered excitedly, “This is your chance!”  
“You know what,” Brian said, taking a swig of his champagne, “I will. Yes…I will!”  
“You can do it, love,” Molly said.   
“You’re a darling, you know that? This would never have happened without you!” he said, turning to kiss her quickly on the forehead before wading confidently though the crowd.   
  
“Seize the moment, Brian!” she remarked with a laugh, raising her glass to him. Brian turned back and raised his glass back to her.   
“That’s right, Molly,” her voice was a whisper now, “Seize…the moment.”  
  
Molly checked her watch again. Soon, it would be time. She took a quick swig from her own glass and kept her breathing as measured as possible. Glancing at the time once more, she saw that if she lingered around any further, she would be late. Molly made sure that Brian was safely occupied, and was relieved to see him talking animatedly with the professor. In fact, a few other guests had joined in and it was all looking well.   
  
Exhaling with relief, Molly was just about to turn around when, out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Mycroft. He hovered only a few paces away from where Brian was. He had long spotted her, of course. He would not be the head of the nation’s surveillance, otherwise. With his choice of tipple in hand, he nodded politely to Molly, and she nodded in return. She smiled, tentatively, almost anxiously, and Mycroft noticed it immediately.   
  
The tall and stately brother of Sherlock angled to face her a little more directly, the crowd still separating them. The eyes that rested on her were gentle, calm. Her look in return, however, was tense, the anxiety increasingly evident in her eyes. It was then that Mycroft smiled at her, almost warmly. A moment later, he mouthed something to her and instantly, her smile crept back and the nerves melted away.  
  
All Mycroft had said was one word, and it gave Molly all the assurance she needed.   
  
_Go_.

* * *

“Where are you off to?” Sherlock asked John. It was an odd coincidence that both men stepped out of their rooms at the same time and made straight for the coat rack. John reached for his leather jacket and shrugged it on whilst Sherlock looped a scarf round his neck.    
  
“Isn’t it obvious?” John asked, stepping back to let Sherlock survey him.  
“N-ope…” Sherlock answered, checking his own appearance in the mirror.   
“Some detective you are,” muttered John, “I’m off to meet Mary. Dinner.”  
“Ah. _Dinner_.” Sherlock said with a scoff.   
“Oy. It’s the same as _coffee_ , all right?”  
“Whatever you say,” Sherlock muttered, trying to shake off the little bit of heat that crept up his neck. He had never been more grateful for his scarf at that moment.   
  
John laughed as he took his turn in front of the mirror, smoothing the sides of his hair. He cast a quick glance at the clock and was pleased to see he was in time for his dinner date. The thought of dinner suddenly reminded John of something. He turned swiftly to the detective who was busy tucking his pouch of Christmas scalpels into his coat pocket.   
  
“Are _you_ meeting someone then?” John asked as casually as he could.   
“Yes,” the detective replied plainly.  
“Going to see Molly?” John said, raising an eyebrow to Sherlock.  
  
At the sound of her name, Sherlock whipped his head round to face John. He was frowning slightly and it puzzled John.  
  
“No, I’m not going to see Molly.” Sherlock answered. His words were measured and slow, as though he were thinking about something else while speaking.   
“You haven’t heard from her since?” John asked, crossing his arms.  
“No, I haven’t.”  
“You sure?”  
“I…really haven’t.” Sherlock answered. His response was genuine, as evidenced by the frown still etched in his face. It no longer puzzled John now.   
  
“Ah, sorry mate…I just thought…”  
“She’s not contacted me,” said Sherlock.  
“I’m sure she will…”  
“I know she will.”  
  
John cleared his throat at the slight awkwardness that had resulted from his assumption. If he was not mistaken, Sherlock looked almost upset. John felt a slight twinge of guilt for having brought it up. A change of topic was probably the best thing.   
  
“So, where are you off to then?” John asked cheerfully, “I’m not you, so don’t expect me to deduce it.”  
“Bart’s. I got a call.” Sherlock answered, checking his mobile phone.  
“New leads?” John asked.   
“New problems. Got a call from the team at Scotland Yard. They said a few of the Bart’s people on the case discovered an anomaly in the way the lungs were inflated. You see, if they had been suffocated _before_ being thrown into the Severn, then what really should have happened to the lu—”  
“Sounds great!” John interrupted, “Anyway, I’ve got dinner. So, you have a good time cracking the case. Keep me posted.”  
“You could always come along,” Sherlock offered.   
“Another time, maybe.” John said, making his way out, “Dinner.”  
  
Sherlock watched John’s retreating figure and fiddled absentmindedly with the mobile phone in his hands.   
  
“Yes,” Sherlock muttered under his breath, “Dinner.”  
  
En route to Bart’s, Sherlock spent all his time in the cab focused on the case. What a strange twist to have occurred. It intrigued him tremendously. Had he not examined the bodies thoroughly before? How could he have missed this twist? This latest development both frustrated and excited him. A good way to pass the time, he thought, as the cab pulled up to the hospital.   
  
Sherlock leapt out from the vehicle and managed to pay the cabby, all in one smooth move. He adjusted his coat and made his way into the building. Straightaway, he noticed something different in the air. Sherlock slowed his walk down to survey his surroundings. Nothing seemed overtly different. There were patients and visitors strolling around the lobby. Hospital staff were scattered about the place, some holding clipboards, some pushing trolleys, some walking and talking in groups. However, there seemed significantly _less_ buzz, as though something else was happening in the hospital. It felt like there were less people around and it just seemed much quieter, with a little less bustle than usual.   
  
Still, Sherlock shrugged it off. What did it matter to his work? He was here and he had a case to attend to. He strode to the lift that would take him downstairs to the morgue where they were expecting him. Had he been the praying sort, he would have prayed for a smooth session, that he would not find himself surrounded by idiots once again. As he was not, he merely readied himself for an evening of selective hearing, ready to tune out the sounds of incompetency he was bound to encounter.   
  
The lift doors slid open and Sherlock made his way straight for the morgue. When he pushed open those familiar double doors, he was perplexed to find the room empty. There were the seven bodies wheeled out and placed side by side but other than those, there really was nobody else. Sherlock looked around and said a tentative _hello_ , only to get no response. Having had his non-prayers answered, Sherlock simply got to work. He spotted a stack of files on a desk in the corner and assumed they were the most recent lab reports that had required his emergency consultation.   
  
“Let’s see, what have we here…” he whispered to himself as he began to flip through the files.

* * *

If Mycroft had said _go_ , it meant it was okay to go. Brian was in good hands and he would be sufficiently occupied. Molly used to complain to Brian that he would forget her as soon as some exciting work-related thing came up. Tonight, she was almost grateful for this tiny relationship flaw. At this moment, it was the very trait she needed to pull this operation off.   
  
Molly politely made her way through the crowd of glittering guests and smartly dressed servers. She made it to the lift lobby in one piece and paused to catch her breath. Her breathing had quickened and she could no longer tell if this was anxiety, or an anticipation she was not allowed to have. She took one look back at the hall full of people and contemplated what she was about to do.   
  
“Seize the moment, Molly Hooper,” she said quietly to herself. There was a little smile on the corner of her lips. Molly tried desperately to stop it, almost trying to conjure back the anxiety to replace the growing excitement she was feeling. She could feel the operation going wrong already. It was starting out on the wrong foot, and that twist in her stomach was the wrong kind. Her jaw was now tight as she willed herself to focus on Brian.   
  
_Brian. Brian. Brian…_ she chanted internally.   
  
Her little chant was interrupted by the _ding_ of lift doors opening. It was time to go. Molly stepped inside and watched the silver doors slide back into position. There was no turning back now. 

* * *

“This is puzzling…” muttered Sherlock to himself. He had gone through all seven folders and spotted no anomaly. In fact, these reports were just written versions of his previous deductions. He saw no mention of the mystery that he had been informed about. Turning around, he glanced at the bodies that were all draped in cloth. He walked toward them and wove between the rows of bodies.   
  
Sherlock randomly lifted the cloth off of one of the bodies and took a cursory glance. He observed nothing out of the ordinary. There were no new incisions, no new tests he could see having been carried out on these bodies. Had he been misinformed? He tried his best to recall the telephone call. In fact, he did not know whom it was that had called him. All he could remember was that it was _not_ DI Lestrade. Was he supposed to meet at the morgue in the first place? Perhaps he was to go down to the Severn, or to Scotland Yard. Since it had been about the bodies, it made sense to Sherlock to meet at the morgue.   
  
With an annoyed click of his tongue, Sherlock reached for his phone to call Lestrade. Perhaps he could shed some light on this time-wasting little mystery. He scrolled for Lestrade’s number and proceeded to dial the number. Sherlock pressed the phone to his ear and waited when just then, he heard the morgue doors open behind him.   
  
“Looking for someone?” said the voice of the one who had opened the doors.   
  
Quickly cancelling the call, Sherlock whipped his head around and was stunned. His mouth was slightly agape as he returned his mobile phone to his pocket in an almost robotic, slow-motion type manner.   
  
There, in that dark dress with its lace details and her ruby drop-earrings, was Molly Hooper. The morgue doors had long shut behind her, but she remained where she was, looking at Sherlock. There was a small smile on her lips as she took in his shocked expression.   
  
“There really was nothing new with the lungs.” she said quietly, “They have remained just as you had analysed.”  
“It was you?”  
“Yes, sort of…” Molly said, taking a step forward, “Though if I had called, you would have known it was me and who knows, you might have changed your mind about coffee…”  
“It was me who asked this time, remember?” he answered.   
  
In a few strides, Sherlock was standing right in front of Molly. She shuffled slightly, taking a half step back, not wanting to be too close. The echoing clicks of her heels punctured the silence in the morgue.  
  
“Why are you…dressed like that?” he asked, frowning as he scanned her from top to toe.   
“Well, the hospital’s quite busy this evening—”  
“No, it isn’t.” he interrupted.  
“It’s quite busy _upstairs_ ,” said Molly, pointing to the ceiling. “Your brother’s hosting a party.”  
“A party? What for?” Sherlock asked.  
“All the top geneticists in town, and possibly the world…” Molly said with a shrug. “Your brother’s amazing.”  
“You’ve come all this way, dressed to _perfection_ , just to tell me how amazing my brother is? You could have just sent a text…” Sherlock remarked, rolling his eyes.  
“Are you saying I look perfect?” Molly asked quietly, biting down on the insides of her mouth from amusement.   
  
Her words caught him off guard, just as his breath had actually caught in his throat when he caught sight of her. It was so strange to see her in such familiar surroundings but in such unfamiliar splendour. Had he ever seen her with her hair down like that before? It was beautiful, and Sherlock made a mental note of it.   
  
“So…” he began, clearing his throat.  
“Hmm, yes.” she said, with a nod, “So.”  
  
They were such an odd sight, both standing so physically near but with such an obvious, forced chasm between them. Their postures were most unnatural, what with their backs ramrod straight, and arms glued to their sides as though they were soldiers on parade. Both their faces were angled just slightly away from each other, but not so much that the other would escape the corners of their eyes.   
  
“I suppose we should cut to the chase?” Molly said quietly.   
“Yes…” Sherlock mumbled, not knowing what else to say. Her entire visit had caught him off guard. He was too shocked to enjoy the pleasure of her company yet. Besides, he was not very sure why she had chosen to meet like this in the first place.   
  
“I suppose the party was to keep Brian out of your hair for a little while?” he said, venturing a guess.   
“You’re very quick,” Molly answered with a shy laugh.  
“It is my profession to be quick,” he answered, smiling.   
“And quickness only _within_ your profession, it seems,” she said, “You’re a little slow when it comes to anything else.”  
“Well, I…”  
“I’m just teasing, Sherlock,” she said with a smile.  
“Oh, right.”  
“Though it _is_ true…”  
“Well, better late than never.”  
  
They both smiled, but their smiles were heavy, despondent. Their positions never changed and their postures remained as they were.   
  
“I’m afraid I have to disagree…” Molly said, finally. Her voice was soft, and laden with regret.  
“Would you rather…never?” Sherlock asked, his voice as hushed as hers.   
“Yes.” she said, looking up sharply. “Yes. Never. No one likes a messy cut.”  
“Am I a messy cut?”   
“The messiest…” Molly replied with a sad laugh.   
“It doesn’t have to be.”   
“It already is.”  
  
She knew this was contrary to the very words she was saying, but Molly lunged forward and wrapped her arms around him.   
  
“Sherlock?” she uttered softly and fiercely as she tightened her grip around him.   
“Yes?” he answered, one arm naturally curving around her waist and the other hand moving to gently cradle the back of her head.   
“I just want you to know that I love _everything_ about you,” she whispered, “Everything.”  
  
The impact from her words was greater than Sherlock had ever imagined. Molly had cut to the chase indeed and it had cut him right to the bone. He immediately drew up any data and experience he had in the context of such expressions. Normally, _logically_ , a confession like so meant the start of journeys, the co-joining of lives, the opening of doors. Why then did this feel like the complete opposite? Somehow, her confession felt like a death sentence, _his_ death sentence.   
  
“Although you’ve been terrible to me,” she continued, “You have also been good.”  
“You’re being too kind, Molly,” he whispered, as he held her even closer.   
“But I am happy now, Sherlock,” she said, “And I need this cut to be clean.”  
“I am no expert on happiness but are you really sure that you are?” he asked, his fingers almost digging into her waist now.  
“I have a job that I love, Brian, whom I love, and who loves me—”  
“Where do I stand then?” he asked quietly, almost dreading the answer.  
“In the way of my happiness,” she answered swiftly.  
“Is that true?” he asked, dread flooding his insides.    
“Yes.”  
“Don’t make jokes, Molly.” he said, with a bitter laugh.  
“I don’t anymore, remember?” she said, her fingers clutching the fabric of his coat ever so tightly.   
  
Molly shut her eyes and tried to memorise the way this moment felt one last time. After this last indulgence of the crisp scent of his shirt and the warm beats of his heart, Molly pulled herself away. Her reluctance to part was so absurdly obvious, as was Sherlock’s, but they peeled themselves away from each other nevertheless.  
  
“I was so angry with you, you know, Sherlock?” Molly confessed.   
“ _That_ , I was aware of, yes.” he said with a gentle laugh.   
“It was just so infuriating… _you_ are infuriating,” Molly said, laughing too.   
“I know,” he said with a smirk.   
“I hated that I could never trust the fragments of goodness you showed to me, and that I was always just waiting…waiting for you to go back to being…you.” Molly said, wringing her hands as she recalled her frustration.    
“I didn’t know, Molly,” he answered quietly. “I didn’t know, and I’m sorry.”  
“Well, now you know,” she said, looking up at him and smiling kindly.   
“Will you forgive me?” he asked quietly.  
“I already have, Sherlock,” she said, “This…this meeting, is it.”  
  
Her forgiveness should have been a good thing, it should have lightened his heavy spirits, but it did not. He was grateful for it, but the happiness that came with gratitude was absent. Sherlock felt like he was sinking. Slowly but surely, he was sinking. He shook off what he could of the despondence and eked out a smile.   
  
“So,” Sherlock said, exhaling sharply as he adjusted his coat, “No coffee then?”   
“No, no coffee,” Molly replied, with a small smile.   
“Friends?” he asked, extending his hand.   
“Always,” she said, taking his hand in hers.   
“Will I see you again?”  
“I plan to come home every Christmas…” Molly answered. Her face brightened a little more now.    
“Well, that’s one reason now to look forward to December,” Sherlock said, smiling furtively.   
  
Molly laughed softly and looked up at Sherlock. She ignored the fact that his smile did not reach his eyes. She refused to believe that this was sad. She refused to believe that _he_ was sad. Molly took a deep breath, smiled once more at Sherlock, and turned to walk out of the morgue.   
  
When her hands pressed against the morgue doors, Molly paused and could not help the smile that was creeping across her face again. Sherlock had not moved from where he was and was surprised to see her stop, with her hand resting on the closed doors. Trying to still the drumming in her heart, Molly turned around to face Sherlock again. Mycroft’s words rang in her head, questioning her ability to achieve what she really wanted to achieve out of this. She had succeeded, but not entirely.   
  
“How’d you like your gift?” she asked, walking towards the detective who was watching her warily.   
“I…like it very much…” Sherlock answered, unsure of what she was doing.  
“Did you bring it with you?” Molly asked, tapping at his coat.  
“Y-es.” he said, reaching for it slowly and bringing it out. “Here.”  
“Good…good,” she said, smiling and nodding as she took it from him.   
  
Molly held it in her hands and toyed with it for a bit. She smiled to herself, biting on her lower lip as she looked down at the pouch of scalpels.   
  
“Since you like your gift…”  
“I do indeed,” he interjected.  
“Be quiet, Sherlock!” Molly remarked, chuckling.  
“Sorry.” he said, unable to stop a smile.  
  
Molly stepped right up to him and held one side of his coat open to reach for its inside pocket. When she had found it, she slid the pouch back in and patted it, folding the coat back over his chest again.   
  
“Could I ask for something in return?” she whispered, looking up at him with bright eyes. Sherlock noticed that her hand was still gripping the edge of his coat and he blinked nervously.   
“Anything…” Sherlock murmured in reply.   
“Anything?” she teased, her eyes dancing.   
“Anything.” he repeated.  
  
Anything that starts off on the wrong foot is not likely to conclude entirely the way it should. Molly could not begin to describe how wrong this was, but nothing could stop her from how much she needed this. This had been brewing far too long in her gut, and she was not going to stop it anymore. If this was going to be goodbye, she was going to be make it a good one. If anything, she deserved it.   
  
The high heels she had on meant Molly hardly needed to tiptoe. She merely reached for his face, gently drawing him towards her and let their lips finally meet. She shut her eyes and sighed with quiet content as she kissed him, memorising as much as she could of how it felt. Molly knew this would shock Sherlock, and was expecting a shove, or a shout, or some kind of dramatic exit.   
  
To her surprise, he resumed his first embrace, this time using both hands to pull her towards him. Molly could feel the crushing intensity of his arms as they anchored themselves around her, his palms pressed against her as he kissed her in return. Where she was expecting his lips to pull away, she never expected to find herself having to keep steady from the force with which he was kissing her.   
  
The one who ended up being in shock was Molly. She could not help but smile against his mouth as he continued to kiss her, sending wave after wave of electricity through her. His hands moved to cup her face, as though refusing to let her go. Molly was supposed to let go, but did not. Her lips parted when his did as they both gasped for a moment of air but only so they could continue. For the very first time, there was _nothing_ between them. No awkward space between, no painful silence, no unspoken hurt.   
  
In an act of synchronised reluctance as their heads cleared, they parted, but only by an inch. Their noses were almost touching as they fought to catch their breaths. Molly laughed quietly and Sherlock could not help but grin back at her. He leaned forward and stole one more soft kiss for himself. He knew he was allowed none of this, but he stole one anyway. She looked up at him, a cheeky glint flitting momentarily in her eyes before they faded back to the heaviness of reality.   
  
The grin on Sherlock’s face faded away too. His eyes widened as he quietly fought the simmering emotion beneath his skin. This was it. Their exchange was complete. He had his Christmas gift and she now had hers. Now, the death sentence was to begin. Still, one hand could not leave her face. He felt the delicate skin of her cheekbone beneath his palm and did not want to touch anything else.   
  
“I have to go,” she whispered, taking a step back from him.  
“You really don’t…” he said.  
“Yes, I do. Don’t tempt me otherwise.” she answered with a little smirk.  
  
Sherlock sighed and stepped fully away from her. Even the hand that held on to the side of her face was now back in his coat pocket. He looked down briefly at his shoes and he could feel Molly’s eyes on him. For a brief moment, he seemed to smile to himself, and then quickly erased it from his face.   
  
“What?” Molly asked, frowning. She saw that grin, and was curious.  
“Nothing,” he said, looking back up. “Nothing.”  
“You were smiling…”  
“It was a good kiss, of course, I’m smiling,” he answered.   
“Like you would know a good kiss…” Molly teased.  
“You’d be surprised,” he said with a smirk.  
“I was.” she said, returning his smirk.   
  
They had returned to their soldier’s positions again. The invisible wall that kept them on their own sides had been rebuilt.  
  
“Goodbye, Molly,” Sherlock said, as Molly turned to walk away from him.   
“Goodbye, Sherlock.”  
“Next Christmas then?” he asked, eyeing her intently.   
“It’s a promise.” she said, with one final smile, before pushing past the double doors and exiting the morgue. 

* * *

When the lift doors opened Molly dashed out. She had not realised how long she had been away and could only hope Mycroft had covered for her. To her relief, the evening was still going well and the atmosphere in the room was simply buzzing. As she snuck her way back into the crowd, she found her boyfriend, talking intently with a few members from the board at Bart’s. Before going up to him, Molly scanned the room for Mycroft. She had to stand up on tiptoe just so she could get a better view above the crowd. Eventually, she spotted him but only because he had been staring at her first.   
  
When their eyes met, she smiled at him and nodded, to signal that it was all finished. Mycroft nodded in return and raised his glass to her. He took a final sip of his drink and placed the glass back on a passing server’s tray. With one more nod to bid Molly goodbye, he turned and walked away. His job this evening was done.   
  
Molly now focused her attention to Brian. She walked up to him and quietly looped her arm through his and leaned against him. He turned to her in surprise and beamed at her. Excitedly, he began introducing her to the people he was talking to and soon, Molly slipped naturally in to their conversation as though she had been there right from the start. 

* * *

There was much to think about on his way home from Bart’s. Sherlock sat in his cab and replayed their meeting and their entire conversation. What Molly had intended to be a parting of ways had only served to put them back on a different set of crossroads. He was sure their paths were not fully divergent, that they would meet again at some point. She had wanted to sever their ties. It was more than obvious. However, she had failed. Whether she knew it or not, Sherlock knew she had failed, just as _he_ had failed so long ago to cut her out from his mind.  
  
Sherlock reached into his trouser pocket and retrieved a tiny object. He placed it on his gloved palm and brought it up to his eyes. It was dark outside but it still sparkled from time to time as the cab whizzed past the street lights. When he examined it, he smiled to himself and his eyes sparkled together with it.   
  
“We’re down from five years to next Christmas…” he murmured as he fiddled with the tiny object between his fingers. “I can definitely wait,” he said with a quiet laugh as he returned the object into his pocket. 

* * *

“What a night, Molly!” Brian exclaimed as he swept her up into his arms and planted kisses all over her face. Molly laughed in delight as she held his face in her hands and kissed him back on his lips.   
“How did you even score us an invite to a gala like this?” he asked, looking at her with bright, ecstatic eyes. “I owe you one, Molly.”  
“You most certainly do,” she teased.   
  
Brian laughed and gave her a peck on each cheek before kissing her once more on her lips. He then affectionately tucked a few locks of her hair at the back of her ear.   
  
“Oh!” he exclaimed in surprise.  
“What?” Molly asked.  
“You’ve lost an earring!” Brian said, reaching to touch her bare lobe.   
  
Molly’s hand snapped up to where Brian had touched her ear and he was right. The drop-earring on her left ear was missing. She sighed angrily at herself. Perhaps it had dropped off in her rush to get back to the party.   
  
“Don’t be upset,” Brian said, giving her a kiss. “We’ll get you a new pair, a lovely new pair.”  
“Thanks darling,” she said, feigning a smile and quickly removing the other earring.   
“I’m going to have a shower,” he said, walking off, “It’s been a crazy night!”  
“You go right ahead, love,” Molly said, moving to sit on the bed as she kicked her heels off.   
  
When he was gone, Molly flopped back down on her bed and stared up at the ceiling. Her heart and mind were now in a muddy mess.   
  
“What happened to a clean cut, aye?” she whispered angrily to herself.   
  
She sighed, frustrated and brought her arm up to cover her eyes. Perhaps it would all be better in the morning. As she lay there, almost drifting off to sleep, she heard her mobile phone buzz within the little clutch bag beside her. Without opening her eyes, she grasped clumsily for her bag and retrieved her phone to read the message.   
  
Molly sat up and rubbed her eyes to clear her vision a little as her other hand swiped open her inbox. She flinched slightly from the brightness of her screen but as her eyes adjusted and its contents were clear, Molly gasped.   
  
Within the tiny rectangle of light in front of her, was a picture of the very earring she had lost. In fact, it had not been lost. Rather, it had been stolen from her.   
  
_A little reminder in case you forget. I’ll keep it well, don’t worry. - SH  
  
See you next Christmas. I’ll be waiting. - SH_


	27. Chapter 27

The morning was cool, quiet and pleasant. Sherlock was up early and after a quick, strong coffee and a secret cigarette, made his way downstairs of his flat. The timing was impeccable. As Sherlock stepped out of the door onto the street, the sleek black car drove up to the pavement, awaiting him. Without any hesitation, the detective got into the vehicle, which sped him away to his destination.   
  
When Sherlock arrived, he scanned the area with a look of both mockery and admiration at his brother. He sneered at how over-the-top his brother could be sometimes with keeping things at maximum security and maximum secrecy. Nevertheless, he marvelled at how brilliantly Mycroft had concealed this new, secret, high priority entrance into Heathrow. Sherlock would never admit it to his brother, but this new entrance would have escaped him. He would have never noticed its presence.   
  
After being ushered through narrow corridors and a multitude of different lifts, Sherlock stepped out into a spacious room with tinted glass windows all round. The furniture was sparse and the air smelled almost unnaturally clean. At the edge of the vast space, forming a slim silhouette by the glass panels, was Mycroft. Sherlock walked towards his brother, taking in the rather breathtaking view of the entire airfield in front of them.   
  
“I take it you like my new observation wing.” Mycroft said, without averting his gaze from the aviation below.   
“It is impressive…” Sherlock began, moving to stand beside his brother.  
“But there’s something you don’t like.”  
“Too elaborate,” Sherlock answered. “But, well, what’s new?”  
“You’re free to use it whenever you need,” Mycroft said, “That is, if you can find it again, of course.”  
  
The two brothers smirked separately, neither of them looking at the other.   
  
“So…” Sherlock said, clearing his throat.”  
“So.” answered Mycroft.   
“Which one is it?” the detective asked quietly.   
“Runway four. Her plane is the one with the dark blue tip.”  
“Yes, I see it.”  
  
Their conservation came to a halt as they looked out to that one aeroplane that was already beginning its taxi along its strip in the airfield. They watched as the nose of the aeroplane made careful little manoeuvres, angling itself to its take-off position. With their eyes fixed on the aircraft, they watched as Molly’s plane began its ascent. It rumbled along its runway, picking up speed as its nose eventually lifted. Within minutes, the back wheels were off, folding back into the body of the aircraft as it launched fully into the air.   
  
“You’ll be monitoring the flight?” Sherlock asked quietly, turning slightly to face his brother.  
“Personally.” Mycroft answered, turning in response. Mycroft’s eyes were gentle and understanding. The kindness in his gaze somewhat embarrassed Sherlock, who bowed his head and turned to look away.   
  
It was quiet again as the brothers returned to staring at the airfield, with the only aeroplane that had been significant now taken off. Sherlock put his hands into his pocket and shifted his feet about.  
  
“Aren’t you afraid it’ll get lost? Carrying it about with you like that?” Mycroft asked.  
“How did you—“  
“You really want me to explain how I deduced that you’d taken a memento off her and are now mindlessly fiddling with it in your pocket?” said Mycroft.  
  
Sherlock sighed and took the earring out from its hiding place. He clasped it between his fingers and continued to stare ahead at the airfield.   
  
“I just wanted to be sure she’d come back,” Sherlock confessed quietly. “That’s all.”   
“I cannot predict the future—” Mycroft began.  
“Are you sure?” Sherlock interrupted with a smirk.  
“Be quiet. I cannot predict the future, but…if it’s any consolation, I agree with you.” Mycroft said calmly.  
“Agree with me?”  
“Yes.”  
“On what?”  
“That Molly Hooper is worth the sentiment that cripples you now.”   
  
Mycroft turned his back from the large windows and walked away from his brother. The detective’s jaw tightened at his older brother’s words, just as his grip around the earring tightened. Suddenly, he whipped around and called out towards Mycroft’s retreating figure.   
  
“Mycroft.”  
  
The retreating footsteps ceased as Mycroft paused and turned back to face his brother.   
  
“Yes, Sherlock?” he said quietly.   
“Does she have… How do you…”  
“I have people who keep an eye on her for me. Simple as that.”  
“Does she know that you keep watch?”  
“Yes, she does. She knows I can’t help it. Occupational hazard. She is a British citizen after all…”  
“You will tell me, Mycroft, if anything happens to her?”  
“I cannot guarantee you that.”  
“Why not?”  
“Molly and I had agreed that her life, though under my surveillance, was to remain private. I was only to intervene if there was a grievous emergency, or if she asked for my help.”  
“I see.”  
“Her life is her own, Sherlock.”  
“Says the man who watches her all the time..”  
“Not all the time, no. I want her to have her life too.”  
“But if something happened, you would tell me. You would tell me.”  
“Whatever she doesn’t want you to know, Sherlock, you will not know. I intend to keep my word to Molly. It is only fair.”  
“But, Mycroft…”  
“I don’t mean to be blunt, brother, but ask yourself this, who are you to her, that I should inform you of her comings and goings?”  
  
It was a blunt question indeed. Blunt like a sledgehammer to his chest. This was why everything about Molly’s return had caught him by surprise, from the return itself, to the unexpected inclusion of Brian. Sherlock did not know how much Mycroft knew of Molly’s life, but what his brother did know, Sherlock now realised he was not privy to have. Sherlock had long established that Molly was necessary to him. Except that now, this necessity was no longer just that. She was paramount. Everything about her was now valuable to him. Her presence, her voice, her words, even her touch - these were all remarkably valuable to Sherlock.   
  
It had taken a long while, but Sherlock had arrived at this point where he now knew, with unusual clarity, who Molly was to him. His brother’s question, however, rang in his head like a death knell. _Who are you to her?_ On and on, the question chimed like a bully’s chant in his head. Who was he to her? What did she make of him now? She had said in the morgue that she loved him. She loved everything about him. If she did, what made her elect to be away from him, and to be with Brian?   
  
The detective brought one hand up to his face, gently massaging circles on his forehead. His other hand remained where it was, by his side and gripping the earring.   
  
“We both know how she feels about you, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, breaking the silence, “It was apparent from the very beginning.”  
“Yes. But it never mattered to me.” Sherlock answered plainly.  
“Does it matter now?” asked Mycroft.   
“I don’t know.” Sherlock muttered.   
“Therein lies the answer to your question.”  
“Which question are you referring to?” the detective said, with a short, bitter laugh.   
“Why she chooses to be separate from you.”  
“I have hurt her. This I know.” Sherlock said, “And I have paid my dues.”  
“Is that all you have done then? To pay the dues owed to Molly?” Mycroft questioned the detective.  
“What more is there?” Sherlock asked, frustrated.  
  
Mycroft smiled and bowed his head, briefly admiring the shine on his shoes. It seemed ironic that he, of all people, should be telling his brother how to manage his heart. Then again, had it not always been like that? Since the time they were children, it was always Mycroft who helped navigate and contain his brother’s unwieldy heart. Emotions were a terrible thing if left in disarray. Thankfully, Mycroft had marvellous organisational skills.   
  
“If your interactions with Molly have solely been that of penance, then her forgiveness should be enough. You wouldn’t be here, quietly lamenting the departure of her flight. You would be satisfied with your clean slate and you would carry on as per normal. Cases, consultations…” Mycroft said coolly, as though reading from a well-rehearsed speech. “But your dissatisfaction, dear brother, and your inability to accept her absence, tells me that your recent bouts of affection for Molly are more than mere penance.”  
  
“What are you implying?” Sherlock asked, frowning a little from the verbosity.   
“I am _saying_ , not implying, Sherlock, that what lies between you and Molly Hooper, unlike every other person you’ve ever encountered, is not a mere transaction of words, thoughts and actions. This is not about a debt owed to her that you needed to pay. This is not just about erasing any hurt you’ve inflicted upon her. What you do with everyone else is calculated interaction. You do not just interact with Molly, Sherlock. You _care_ for her, and you don’t want to stop caring for her.”  
  
Sherlock shut his eyes tightly and tried to make sense of his brother’s words. How was his brother so right, all the time? Infuriating as it was, it was also enlightening. Mycroft _was_ right, and Sherlock was almost grateful that he was.   
  
“Are you suggesting…” Sherlock began.  
“Yes.”  
“You and I, we don’t…use that word.”  
“But it’s true.”  
“You really think so?”  
“I _know_ so, Sherlock,” Mycroft said with a smirk. “There’s a look in your eye…”  
  
Sherlock laughed and shook his head. He held out the earring he had been holding in a death grip and let it rest on his outstretched palm.   
  
‘What would you know about _the look_ in people’s eyes?” Sherlock asked, lightly teasing his brother.  
  
Mycroft merely smirked to himself and drummed his fingers over his umbrella handle.   
  
“I have my ways,” Mycroft answered simply.   
“Am I so obvious?” Sherlock asked, almost lamenting.   
“Not to untrained eyes, no. Not even to your own trained eye.” Mycroft said with a laugh, “But it’s plain as day to me.”  
“I wonder why…” Sherlock asked, staring intently at his brother with bright, interested eyes. “How would you know?”  
“I just…do. I told you, I have my ways…” Mycroft answered, a little flustered.   
“Are you still—”  
“We’re talking about you today, Sherlock,” Mycroft interrupted.   
“Ah, I guessed as much,” Sherlock said, nodding triumphantly.   
“Guessed what?” Mycroft asked, slightly alarmed.   
“I thought we were talking about me…” Sherlock remarked, smirking at his brother.   
  
Mycroft cleared his throat and composed himself, placing both hands above the polished handle of his umbrella. He watched his brother, who twirled the ruby drop earring between his fingers, observing the way it caught the light. Sherlock’s agony over Molly had always worried Mycroft. This detective was a man who would never let himself fall prey to such a fatuous notion as love. Mycroft was a large reason Sherlock had become this way, for this was Mycroft’s own stand on the matter as well. Nevertheless, Mycroft could see that the value of Molly had rendered the notion a lot less fatuous than both brothers had feared. She really was necessary, in every possible sense.   
  
“Do you think she’ll be back next year?” Mycroft asked, gesturing to the earring in Sherlock’s hand.   
“I was going to ask _you_ that,” Sherlock said, throwing the earring up in the air, catching it and returning it to his pocket. “What do you think?”  
“I’d like to think that she will,” Mycroft answered, “But to be honest, I don’t know.”  
“You never _not know.”  
“_ I am in no more control of her life than you are, Sherlock,” Mycroft remarked.  
  
Sherlock nodded solemnly, turning back to stare out into the airfield. He exhaled quietly and tried to sort out the tangle of questions and thoughts in his mind. There was so much of him that wanted to hop onto the next plane out of London, to take her home for himself, but even Sherlock knew better. He knew it would anger her, it would be uncalled for and that it simply was not his place to do so. What was he to her, that he could simply take her home?   
  
“Would she come back for me?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.   
“If you were worth coming back for, yes,” Mycroft answered, walking back up to stand beside his brother.   
“You asked if I knew what I was to Molly…” Sherlock continued.   
“Yes…”  
“She told me I stood in the way of her happiness,” the detective said, laughing quietly, “That is my position in her life, Mycroft. In the way of her happiness.”   
“That isn’t entirely true.” Mycroft argued.  
“But she has decided that this is what it will be.” Sherlock remarked, smiling blankly. “And unhappiness is certainly not worth coming back for. I would advise against it myself.”  
“Yet here you are, wishing for the exact opposite.”  
“Perhaps.” Sherlock said, with a shrug of his shoulders, “But I honestly don’t know what it is I wish for.”  
  
It was Mycroft’s turn to sigh. They were approaching a dead end. His brother was miserable, but neither of them could do anything about it. It was nobody’s place to intervene with Molly’s decision. If she was happy, they had no right to disrupt it.    
  
“We can’t tell what Molly will do,” Mycroft said, “But what will you do, Sherlock?”  
“I haven’t decided.” the detective mumbled in reply. “It’s between waiting…or waiting.”  
  
He laughed dryly and Mycroft managed a smile, relieved somewhat that his brother still had a bit of humour left.   
  
“Make the wait worthwhile,” Mycroft said, as he began to walk away once more.  
“For whom?” Sherlock asked, turning towards his brother’s moving figure.   
“For whomever’s waiting.” answered Mycroft.  
“Well, that’s me, obviously.” Sherlock scoffed, puzzled at Mycroft’s words.  
“Are you sure?” Mycroft asked, stopping in his tracks.  
“Of course. Why would _she_ be waiting for me?” Sherlock remarked, perplexed.  
“Why indeed, Sherlock.” Mycroft said, with a small laugh, “Why indeed.”  
  
Their meeting was over at last. Mycroft finally exited the room, leaving the detective to his own thoughts in the large, empty space. It was an interesting thought that Mycroft had presented. It had never occurred to Sherlock that something could be done to make Molly change her mind. That perhaps, she too wanted the same thing, but that the circumstances were just not right. He scoffed at himself when he realised he was largely to blame. _He_ was the very circumstance that was ‘not right’. Everything that he had done, he had done for his own selfish outcomes. All their times at the morgue, his invitation to dance, using her as a decoy at the beginning of the whole Evelyn Lancaster debacle, all these had caused Molly to suffer. He recalled, with chilling accuracy, how he had found Molly slumped in her flat after having been poisoned by Evelyn.   
  
“Molly Hooper…” the detective murmured to himself as he stared out of the window.   
  
When he had almost lost her, Sherlock remembered realising how indispensable she was to him. Except now, she was indispensable for a different reason. She was valuable just as she was. She was necessary and not for the benefit of his cases or his experiments. Sherlock was the one that needed her, and she was necessary to _him_.   
  
He smiled, almost embarrassed at having admitted something like this to himself. It made the earring in his pocket feel unusually heavy. It was as though it had suddenly become a stark reminder of her absence. There was also an added anxiety now, in the case that she did not return. It struck Sherlock hard as a hammer when he properly considered the reality of never seeing Molly again.   
  
“Unacceptable,” he muttered to himself.   
  
There were all these memories now, sights and sensations that flooded his mind. He pictured her in her lab coat, chatting with him about aneurysms over a split chest before them. There was that first devastatingly bad hospital coffee she had made him, and the following devastatingly bad coffees that he never quite seemed to tire of asking from her. Sherlock pieced together all the things about Molly that he had not realised delighted him so. Her stifled chuckles and smiles when he was being snarky to dim-witted police officers were a favourite. There was that kindness in her eyes, and the patience and dedication she showed to her work, and also to him. Eventually, his memories led him to the most recent one of her, where he pictured again her beautiful hair styled to one side as the ruby earrings enhanced the natural glow of her face.  
  
Then there was that kiss. Sherlock shook his head, blinking the memory away. It seemed ironic but that moment was too precious a memory to recollect. It was the most physical memory he had of her and he was surprised at the physical ache it created. It was as though a section of his chest had been scooped out and removed and was now in the hands of Molly.   
  
“So that’s what it means,” Sherlock said with a laugh, “Being part of someone…”  
  
Sherlock took his phone out and scrolled for his message inbox. He found Molly’s name among the list of messages and selected it. Molly’s flight had taken off only less than hour ago. It would take several hours more before she reached Japan. Still, he tapped on her name and wrote her a simple message  
  
_Please let me know when you’ve arrived safely. - SH_  
  
That was all he could muster. It was all he could hope for now at this point. Mycroft was monitoring the flight, but it was always good to hear from her himself. Once it sent, Sherlock exhaled slowly to compose himself from the tidal wave of revelations. He then walked out of the observation wing, and made his way back to Baker Street. 

* * *

For a man with such good memory and sharp focus, it was most contrary that he should forget basic things like the time of day, or meals he might have had. Sherlock woke with a start and discovered he had just collapsed into bed without having even changed his shoes. Due to the awkward angle at which he had collapsed and fallen asleep in, coupled with his jacket that had not been undone, Sherlock had a terrible case of pins and needles in his left arm.   
  
Slowly, he rolled himself out of bed, hissing slightly at his tingling arm and trying desperately to shake off the numbness. He looked down at his shoes and realised they were sticky with mud, only to remember then that he had been called down to a lake for a case. When he sat up, he shook his head and tried to sober up properly, searching for a timepiece that would tell him what time it was. It was close to four o’clock in the morning and he could barely remember the time he actually hit the bed.   
  
When he finally got to his feet, the squelching sound of wet mud from his shoes on his bedroom floor reminded him that he should be rid of them. Sherlock could already imagine the shelling he was going to get from Mrs Hudson. Kicking them off, he dragged himself to the bathroom to have a wash. When he was done, he felt much more alive and proceeded to sort out what he had or had not done for the series of cases he had lined up.   
  
Dressed comfortably in his pyjamas and wrapped in his signature robe, Sherlock headed out to the kitchen to make himself a coffee. Whilst the kettle was on, he popped open his laptop on his study desk to continue his research into the case. Just then, his phone chimed and he picked it up immediately, swiping its screen swiftly. His case was starting to come back to him now and he was hoping it was the information he had requested from his homeless network.   
  
To his surprise, it was not. In fact, to his pleasant surprise, it was a message from Molly.   
  
“This is ridiculous…” he muttered, irritated at the sudden acceleration of his heartbeat from the sight of her name alone.   
  
_I’m back. Safe and well. - M_  
  
He was glad. Of course, he was glad, but what now? Sherlock’s fingers hovered awkwardly above the screen. Should he say something? What would he say anyway? As he clumsily put together a generic message of wellbeing and telling her to ‘take care’, another message chimed in. It was from her again.   
  
_I hope you’ve been taking care of my earring. It’s a favourite of mine. - M_  
  
A smile crept onto his face. He was glad that she was making conversation. It made him feel a little more at ease. Sherlock began typing away, unable to stop the rush of delight that flooded him. The electric kettle had long finished boiling but he paid no attention.  
  
_It’s safe and sound. It lives in the skull on my mantelpiece. - SH  
  
That’s brilliant! I bet it looks like a drop of blood in an empty skull… - M  
Oh, sorry…that was irrelevant. - M  
  
No, I agree. Would you like to see it? – SH  
  
Yes please! – M  
  
_ With a grin on his face, Sherlock walked over to the mantelpiece and took a quick snapshot of the skull out of which dangled Molly’s ruby earring from its hollow socket.   
  
_There you go. I quite like the way it looks. I might keep it. – SH  
  
I agree that it’s beautiful. I don't agree with you keeping it. – M  
  
Bummer. Well, the point is, it’s safe. And you can trust me. - SH  
  
I do. - MH  
  
And can I trust you? - SH  
  
What do you mean? - M  
  
Your promise. Will I see you again? - SH  
  
A promise is a promise. - M  
  
Good. And is Brian aware of this promise? - SH  
  
He is aware of the annual homecoming. - M  
  
So he doesn’t know you’re coming back to see me. - SH  
  
Who said I was coming back just to see you? - M  
  
You did. - SH  
  
Even if I did, he doesn’t need to know. - M  
  
If he did know, would it matter? - SH  
  
Probably not, but I wouldn’t risk it. - M  
  
So I’m a risk now? That’s an improvement. - SH  
  
You’re very amusing, Sherlock. - M  
But no, it will be fine. We will come back, and I will visit you, and it will be fine. - M  
  
You’re not going to kiss me again, are you? - SH  
  
Sherlock! I’m going to have to delete these messages now. - M  
  
Were you intending to keep our messages? - SH  
  
Sherlock, you’re doing it again… - M  
  
Doing what? - SH  
  
Being a bit arsehole-y. Selfish… Being you. - M  
  
I’ll admit I’m being selfish. - SH  
  
What for? - M  
  
You. - SH  
  
I really have to delete these now. - M  
  
I’m not - SH  
  
SEE YOU AT CHRISTMAS SHERLOCK. - M  
  
See you at Christmas, Molly. - SH_  
  
That was the last he heard of her. He waited and waited and hoped for some sort of bad joke or an attempt at a witty comeback, but she had gone silent. The light of morning had started coming in and Sherlock remained at his desk, absentmindedly surfing the web on his laptop, when really, he was still hoping for a reply.   
  
Mrs Hudson had come up to deliver breakfast and his morning tea, and there was still no reply. Even the yelling from Mrs Hudson upon discovering the mud trails in his flat had come and gone and still, there was not a word from Molly. With a frustrated sigh, Sherlock slammed his laptop shut and got dressed. It was time to get a bit of sunlight, solve a bit of crime, and forget about the long wait that he had ahead of him. 

* * *

Mycroft had nearly caved in, on so many occasions, to simply tell Sherlock everything about Molly’s life in Japan. It did not help that his little brother was being so frightfully aggravating. Every so often, especially on cases commissioned by Mycroft, Sherlock would seize the opportunity to extract what he could regarding Molly. There were even occasions when Sherlock would suddenly ask about Brian and the status of his academic career. All Mycroft would say in response was that she was alive and well, and that he was not entitled to say anything else.  
  
Sherlock had still been in contact with Molly, even after that awkward conversation they had upon her arrival. However, it had begun to wane after about six or seven months. Her texts started becoming far and few in between, and perhaps only one or two of the few of them had been those initiated by her. Their correspondence never lasted more than four or five exchanges before she would go silent again. Mycroft could see that this worried his brother, but Mycroft was a man of his word and kept his promise to Molly.   
  
How Mycroft had tolerated this for almost a year was testament to his patience as the older brother of the rather infuriating Sherlock Holmes. Mycroft had just finished a brief phone call with his brother discussing case updates on the theft of some valuable relics from one of the top-secret vaults of the British government. It had concluded, as they always did, with Sherlock asking if there was any news of Molly. Now that they were skirting around the edges of December, Sherlock had begun to press his brother for information on Molly’s return.   
  
_Surely you could divulge that?_ _It’s just travel plans, flight information…_ his brother had argued. Mycroft simply ignored Sherlock’s persistent questions and told him he was to mind his own business. When he was finally rid of his brother, Mycroft put the phone receiver down and put his head in his hands. Taking a deep breath, Mycroft tried to balance the great weights of information that were now housed in his mind. He had promised Molly that her life would stay hers, that it would stay private. No matter what happened, unless her life was in danger or she asked for help, he was not to divulge anything to Sherlock. Molly insisted on a clean cut, separating her life from Sherlock’s and Mycroft had managed to honour that. As he sat at his desk, his hands now rubbing his tense temples, the phone rang again.  
  
“Hello?” he answered.   
“Hello.” came the voice on the other end. It sounded chipper and brightened the mood instantly  
“Hello.” Mycroft answered, allowing a small smile to appear on his face. He was glad that his door was shut.   
“How are you?” she asked. Her voice was bright and energetic.   
“Troubled, as always. Have you any news for me?” he asked.   
“Can’t I even ask about you a little more before diving straight into business? You’re so cold, Mycroft,” she said.  
“I’m always the same. There is no need to ask.” Mycroft replied, “How’s Molly?”  
“She’s doing wonderful. Her last check at the doctor’s was great. She’s got a more positive outlook now, and she’s started making plans. I daresay she’s going to be all right.”   
“Good, good, that’s good.” Mycroft said, genuinely relieved.   
“How’s your brother then?” she asked.  
“Troubled as well.”   
“Ah, he would be. She hasn’t had the heart to talk to him much. She’s got too much on her plate anyway…”  
“Has she made her decision?”  
“I’d say she’s about 90% sure.”  
“Which is another way of saying she’s absolutely sure.” Mycroft said, disappointed.  
“Yes.” she answered.   
  
Mycroft’s head dipped as he rested it wearily against his free hand. The road ahead was going to be tough. The temptation to involve Sherlock was great, but Mycroft had made a promise to Molly. What could Sherlock Holmes do in a situation like this anyway? Mycroft sighed quietly, but it did not go unnoticed.  
  
“I’m sorry,” she said suddenly, her voice softening.   
“You have nothing to be sorry about.”  
“I tried to help…”  
“You needn’t worry. Sherlock Holmes isn’t your brother…” Mycroft said plainly.  
“This has never been about Sherlock.” she replied firmly.  
“I can manage. If that’s what you’re worried about.”   
“I am.”  
“Don’t be.”  
“You make me worry.”   
“Don’t. It makes you inefficient.”   
“I am always efficient.”  
“Well, it makes _me_ inefficient.” Mycroft said, pinching the bridge of his nose, “And we haven’t got time for that.”  
“You’re so cold, Mycroft.” she repeated.  
“I have to be,” he answered, almost gently.   
“Not all the time.”  
“Perhaps,” he said, “But now is the time, I’m afraid.”  
  
They had a few more quick discussions about Molly and what further arrangements to make. When they were done, Mycroft took a deep breath and leaned back against seat. The more he spoke about it with the agent he had assigned to Molly, the more he wanted to break his promise to Molly. Mycroft chuckled lightly to himself when he imagined the look on his brother’s face if he were to involve him in such a situation. He even contemplated not explaining anything to Sherlock, sending him straight to Molly instead.   
  
“What use would you be over there anyway, Sherlock?” Mycroft said to himself, “What incentive would you have left?”  
  
Mycroft ran through the entire situation up to this point, reviewing everything he had just discussed with his agent in Japan. What harm would there be, if Sherlock _did_ get involved? Would his brother’s lingering sentiment for the pathologist prove beneficial to Molly? Or would it destabilise everything and everyone, creating a whole new set of problems? Mycroft shook his head in amazement at how he had gone from handling the affairs of Queen and country, to that of his brother’s heart and the woman who resided in it.  
  
“I know what to do, I _always_ know,” Mycroft uttered, frustrated. “Why is this so difficult?”  
  
Mycroft began to mull over this, fiddling with his pen and looking absentmindedly through random documents. He was almost angry at his lack of confidence in making a decision. Sentiment was to blame. It really was. It was the worry he had for his brother, and the genuine endearment he had grown to have for Molly.   
  
“If the thought is so ridiculous, why does it make the most sense?” he mumbled angrily to himself.   
  
There was no denying it. Mycroft could not explain why, but it was the best choice. He did not know what was going to happen if Sherlock and Molly were to meet now, nor did he know how they would possibly react. All he had left was his intuition, and if there was one person whose intuition could be trusted, it was Mycroft. This time, however, _he_ was the one who had to trust his own gut.   
  
“It makes the most sense,” he repeated, “I don’t know how, but it does.”  
  
Having made the decision, Mycroft got up abruptly from his seat and walked out of his office. He opened his office door and was greeted by a sea of faces, ready and waiting to assist him.   
  
“Is anything the matter, sir?” asked one of the secretaries who got up swiftly from his own seat.  
“Get Sherlock.” Mycroft said, before returning to his office and shutting the door. 

* * *

“Why didn’t you send a helicopter?” Sherlock asked, flustered and out of breath upon barging into his brother’s office. “Traffic was horrendous.”  
“Sit down. Pipe down. Calm down.” Mycroft answered, “There was no need for a helicopter.”  
“Start talking or I might hit you.”  
“Must you be so dramatic, Sherlock?” Mycroft sighed, as he settled himself into his seat.   
  
With a frustrated huff, Sherlock sat down across from his brother’s desk and crossed his arms, awaiting Mycroft’s explanation.   
  
“You said you had something to tell me about Molly,” Sherlock said, impatient to begin.   
“Yes, Molly…” Mycroft answered.  
“Well?”  
“I’m afraid she’s not coming back this December.”   
  
Sherlock’s jaw tightened. He paused and replayed his brother’s exact words, just to make sure he had not heard wrongly.   
  
“No, you heard me right,” said Mycroft. “She’s not coming back.”  
“Do you know why?” Sherlock asked, through gritted teeth.  
“As a matter of fact, I do.”   
“I’m waiting…”  
“I’m afraid, I can’t tell you…”  
  
There was the loud groan of Sherlock’s heavy chair dragging against Mycroft’s floorboards as the detective stood up with a start, nearly knocking his chair over.   
  
“What…is going on?” Sherlock asked, seething quietly.  
  
Mycroft exhaled sharply and leaned forward on his desk. He clasped his two hands together and rested them right in front of him.   
  
“Tonight, you leave for Japan.” said Mycroft, matter-of-factly.   
  
Sherlock’s eyes widened in horror.  
  
“What’s happened?” he asked quietly.   
“Your flight’s been booked, so pack a light bag but don’t worry, everything will be arranged for your arrival there,” Mycroft said, ignoring his brother’s question.   
“Right…” Sherlock said, frowning as he slowly sat back down.   
  
If there was one thing Sherlock knew about his brother, it was that information was never withheld without reason. It was aggravating, yes, but Sherlock had come to respect his brother’s sense of discretion.   
  
“What else do I do?” asked Sherlock, unusually compliant.   
“When you arrive, you will meet Agent Marsden.” Mycroft continued, “She will take over from there.”  
“You mean Ayumi?” Sherlock asked, his eyes suddenly sparkling with curiosity.   
“Yes…Ayumi.” Mycroft repeated, a little reluctantly.  
“I was right,” Sherlock said with a smirk.  
“Enough. This is about you. And Molly, remember?”  
“Yes, of course,” Sherlock said, nodding, but he could not wipe the smirk off his face.   
“So, you’ll go?” Mycroft asked.   
“Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t I?” Sherlock replied.   
“If you only knew, Sherlock,” Mycroft answered, tight-lipped.   
“Does Ayumi know?”  
“Yes. Agent Marsden was assigned to Molly from the moment she set foot in the country.”  
“I didn’t know you were still in touch—”  
“We’ve always been in touch,” Mycroft interrupted, “If that’s what you want to hear.”  
“I see…” Sherlock said, nodding slowly.   
“One last thing, Sherlock…”  
  
It was Mycroft’s turn now to stand. He pushed his seat back gently, and straightened up slowly. Sherlock kept his hands tucked in his coat pocket, whilst Mycroft held his behind his back.   
  
“When you see Molly…” Mycroft began.  
“Yes?”  
“Care for her, Sherlock.” said Mycroft  
“What makes you think I won’t?” Sherlock replied, frowning slightly.  
“Care for her, for _her_. Not out of your sense of duty, or for penance.”   
  
With those parting words, Mycroft handed his brother an envelope containing Sherlock’s boarding pass, and walked out of his office.   
  
“Mycroft,” Sherlock called out.   
  
His elder brother stopped, and turned.   
  
“Thank you,” he said, holding up the envelope.  
“Don’t be so quick to thank me,” Mycroft said, smiling blankly.  
“Is she all right?” Sherlock asked again, his voice was low and serious.  
“Yes, she really is,” Mycroft said.  
“What’s all this for then?” Sherlock asked.  
“Just a feeling I had,” Mycroft said, shrugging his shoulders.    
  
Mycroft turned back and continued making his way to the door. With his hand on the doorknob, he turned again to look at his brother.   
  
“Take care of her, Sherlock,” Mycroft repeated. His voice was earnest. One would think he was almost pleading. Sherlock nodded, slipping the envelope into his inner coat pocket, as he too, made his way out of the office.


	28. Chapter 28

“So, how are you today?”   
  
It was lunchtime for Molly at the university hospital and she was seated at lunch in one of the hospital cafes with her friend, now confidante, Ayumi. She picked at her omelette, smearing its ketchup-drawn smiley face into a whirlpool of red. It looked rather nostalgically like a murder scene and it made Molly smirk for a moment.   
  
“Not hungry again?” Ayumi continued, taking a sip of her iced tea.   
  
Molly shrugged and cut a corner of her omelette which had been folded over rice. She balanced it carefully on her fork and took a slow bite. It had become a comfort food of late, this _omu-rice_ , as Molly had been taught. Short for ‘omelette rice’, which amused Molly no end.   
  
“I’m starving, to be honest,” Molly said, at last. “But have no appetite. Is that strange?”  
  
She laughed, and Ayumi smiled in understanding. Ayumi drummed her fingers contemplatively on the table as she watched her friend carefully select another corner of omelette to cut.  
  
“It isn’t,” Ayumi replied, at last. “I’m glad you’re trying, despite the lack of appetite. Just take it easy, all right?”  
“I will…” Molly said, smiling in return as she raised a forkful of egg and rice in the air before putting it in her mouth.   
  
The two friends ate in comfortable silence. Molly was grateful for Ayumi, who had been assigned to her by the university administration to assist with her orientation to the new country, new home and new job. Ayumi was only to assist Molly for the first month or so, just to get her settled. However, they had become fast and firm friends and their correspondence had gone well beyond a month, and moved well beyond that of a consultant and a new employee. Somehow, Ayumi had always been there for Molly, even for the smallest of things. Not only was Ayumi incredibly resourceful, she was incredibly sensitive, and therefore utterly trustworthy.   
  
Since this whole _thing_ had occurred, Molly had had no one she could really turn to. There was no family here in Japan, or in England, really. She had plenty of colleagues, but none of whom she could consider friends. Ayumi was the only to whom she could bare a little more of her soul to. For a while, Molly had contemplated telling Mycroft. In fact, she was surprised he had not contacted her about this at all. Surely he would have picked up on it in his general surveillance of her? Nevertheless, what could Mycroft have done? How could he help? This was no matter of security, or government, it was a personal matter. A _deeply_ personal matter, in fact. Had she not instructed Mycroft specifically to stay out of these _deeply_ personal affairs?   
  
Without realising it, Molly had let out a quiet sigh and frowned at her plate of food. Naturally, it caught Ayumi’s attention.   
  
“What is it?” Ayumi asked.    
“I had a good thing going, you know, Ayu,” Molly began, smiling wistfully at the mangled ketchup smiley face on her omelette.   
“And you still do.” replied Ayumi confidently, “Nothing has changed for the worst.”  
“You really think so?” Molly asked, looking up at her friend.   
“Look, your life will be interrupted, no doubt about that. But you’re Molly. And the Molly I’ve come to know is smart, determined, responsible…” Ayumi said, smiling, “…and will make a wonderful mother.”  
  
Her words brought a small smile to Molly’s face. Ayumi reached out to take Molly’s hand. Molly’s fingers gripped Ayumi’s tightly, grateful for the support. There was neither pity, judgement, nor worry in Ayumi’s eyes. She smiled confidently at her friend and assured her, without uttering a word, that Molly was going to be absolutely fine. 

* * *

It was just past midnight and Ayumi was still up. She was poring through some documents when her mobile phone buzzed quietly on her desk. She set the file down, stretched and picked the phone up. The caller’s identity was blocked and registered only as a dash on her screen, but in her line of work, this was not uncommon. Besides, if something did happen, tracing a blocked call was nothing daunting.   
  
“He-llo.” she answered.   
“How are…things?” the voice on the other line asked.   
  
Ayumi smiled. What an unusual thing to happen. He never called, at least not to ask about, in his own words, ‘trivial matters’.   
  
“Are you who I think you are?” she asked, trying to hide the amusement in her voice.  
“You know who I am…”  
“Really? Because this is rather uncharacteristic of you—”  
“To say this is _uncharacteristic_ means you know _exactly_ who I am.” he interrupted.   
  
She laughed, and was sure there was a smile at the other end of the line.   
  
“To what do I owe this pleasure?” she asked.   
“Are you well?”   
“Surely your people can tell you that, Mycroft,” she replied in jest.   
“They can only tell me so much,” he said, “I’d rather hear from you myself.”  
“Well, if you must know, I’m doing fine,” she answered. “And so is Molly.”  
“I have to thank you, Ayumi,”  
“I know,” she said with a chuckle.   
“I’m glad you’re there with her. You’re the only one I can trust.” Mycroft said earnestly.   
“Are you jealous though?” she asked, smirking.  
“Of?”  
“Molly.”  
“Because?”  
“I’m there with her.”  
“Ah.”  
  
There was a pause and Ayumi’s smirk had fallen into a wistful little smile.  She heard him clear his throat but there were no other words from him after.   
  
“If it’s any interest to you, I’ve just been re-reading the Berlin case,” she said, changing the topic.   
“That _is_ interesting…”  
“I’m thinking of taking it up,” she said, “But it depends on how Molly is. She’s my priority now.”  
“I appreciate that.” he said, “But if you do take it up, I’m happy to offer any help.”   
“I know, Mycroft, I know,” Ayumi replied with a smile.   
“Ayumi…”  
“Yes?”  
“I…will try to contact you…a little more,” he said.   
  
Ayumi laughed gently at Mycroft’s strained attempt at sentiment. All these years that they had been corresponding had taught her to decipher his manner of speech, where layers of ice floated above his true intentions. She was always able to nudge them away and see what he truly meant. This was what had earned her his trust - that she could read him right to his very depths without once betraying his vulnerability. Rather, she had protected it, and stood with him faithfully.   
  
“That’s all right,” she replied finally, “I’m going to be busy anyway.”   
“Hmm, yes, of course…” muttered Mycroft.  
“But do so anyway,” she said gently, “Please.”  
“Of course,” Mycroft answered. She could hear the smile in his voice.   
“Goodnight, Mycroft,”   
“Goodnight.”  
  
When she finished the call, Ayumi took a deep breath and scanned her room casually. She was still smiling and fought to get it under control.   
  
“Of all people…” she murmured to herself, amused, “It has to be Mycroft Holmes.” 

* * *

Sherlock’s flight had landed safely and he had managed to sleep through most of it. It baffled him that his brother, who was more paranoid than anyone else of Sherlock relapsing, had been the one to offer Sherlock a dose of sleeping pills for the flight. Mycroft had claimed it was from knowing full well how agitated the detective would be on the flight. _I was afraid you’d get violent on the plane in your impatience to arrive_ , Mycroft had texted. Sherlock had laughed upon reading it, but realised his nerves were indeed simmering too close to the surface. Not wanting to risk being arrested in mid-air, he took the permitted dose and was sufficiently knocked out for most of the flight.   
  
Sherlock passed through immigration without effort, thanks to his brother’s arrangements. Having packed a light piece of hand luggage, there was no need to stop by the baggage carousel either. As he stepped out of the glass doors from immigration into the airport’s private VIP arrival lobby, Sherlock recognised the petite woman standing just a few metres ahead. She looked just as he remembered, except this was probably the first time he had seen her in such casual civilian clothing. It was also the first time he had seen her without a weapon.   
  
“What, no lavish sign with _Sir Sherlock Holmes_ on it?” he said with a smirk as he walked towards her. “Are you sure my brother sent you?”  
“You’re no knight, Sherlock,” she said, returning his smirk, “Certainly not one in shining armour,”  
“Well, as far as you’re concerned, there really is only _one_ knight in shining armour, isn’t there?” he remarked.   
“Your brother had warned me about this…” she said, laughing, “Let it go, Sherlock. We need to focus on the matter at hand.”  
  
She led him out of the lobby and to a car that awaited them. The pair of them got in, and off the car sped, out of the airport.   
  
“Where are we headed?” he asked. There were no more snarky remarks or jest from moments ago. As she had reminded him, there were matters at hand, fairly urgent ones, in fact.   
“We’re dropping you off at a hotel first, just so you can freshen up and gather your wits about you,” she answered, “But hopefully, you won’t need to be putting up there for long.”  
“What do you mean?” Sherlock asked, frowning.  
“It means, Sherlock,” Ayumi exclaimed, turning to face him, “that our goal is for Molly to take you in.”  
“Why wouldn’t she?”   
“It’s complicated,”  
“Is it?”  
“I wish it wasn’t,” Ayumi said, “But it is.”  
  
Sherlock leaned back against his seat and watched the scenery fly him by. He was still no wiser than when he had left England and it was terribly frustrating. The mystery was starting to grate on his nerves, but he did his best to maintain his composure.   
  
“What _can_ you tell me, Ayumi?” Sherlock asked in earnest, turning back from the window to face her.  
  
Ayumi, his brother’s assigned agent to Molly, sighed in her seat. Her mouth tightened as she contemplated. Mycroft had left this entire leg of the journey to her discretion, but she still had not decided how much to say, and when best to say it.   
  
“How soon would you like to see her?” she asked in return.   
“I could see her now,” answered Sherlock, without missing a beat.  
“Tell you what,” Ayumi said, “We have a long drive ahead. We’ll have a chat, then we’ll see.”

* * *

Ayumi had chosen to start on the topic of Brian. Not the most pleasant way to begin, but Sherlock was sure she had her reasons. She operated very similarly to his brother, which was reason enough for Sherlock to accord her the same deep trust and respect. Deep being the operative word, for these were mostly disguised beneath the detective’s sarcasm and condescension.   
  
She regaled, to a very reluctant Sherlock, the story of how Brian and Molly had met, and how their friendship had blossomed into the romance that Sherlock had witnessed in England. Ayumi also pointed out how Molly had never mentioned Sherlock to her, not at any single juncture during her time in Japan except after her most recent trip home to England. Sherlock’s interest piqued at this point in the chat and listened with great enthusiasm. However, Molly had been cryptic in her mention of Sherlock.   
  
“All she had said was that you were someone she needed to forgive and to say goodbye to,” Ayumi continued.  
“Which she did…in some sense…” Sherlock smirked.  
“Oh, I _know_ what she did.” Ayumi said with a laugh. “She didn’t have to tell me, but I knew. It was as clear as having her kiss you right in front of me. ”  
“You’re very perceptive,” Sherlock remarked, impressed, “No wonder my brother loves you,”  
“He does not,” Ayumi answered sharply.  
“You know that’s not true,” said the detective with a laugh.   
“We can debate that another time,” Ayumi answered, smiling furtively, “But back to Molly, once they’d returned from England, she seemed to try doubly hard to make things work with Brian.”  
“Was she happy?”  
“Very!” Ayumi exclaimed, “I’d never seen her happier. She focused all her time and energy on her work, and on Brian, and it paid off. They were going _really_ strong. Their careers were soaring and more importantly, their careers were _aligned_. They were making some amazing plans, plans that would have taken them out of Japan and all over the world with the work they were doing. They were absolutely thrilled.”  
  
Sherlock huffed and stared out of the window. The report on the couple’s extreme happiness and growing success contrasted with the increasing heaviness in his chest. Whatever hopes he had dared to hold on to were precariously close to being discarded. Even the memory of her parting kiss in the morgue, the one shred of chance he dared depend on, seemed empty and meaningless now.  
  
“How are they now?” Sherlock mustered the courage to ask. He decided that he might as well get it over and done with and listen to all the ugly bits at one go. He waited, taking measured breaths, anticipating the onslaught of ‘happiness’ that Ayumi was about to divulge about Molly’s current situation. He could see it now, Brian finishing his doctorate, Molly finding new breakthroughs in her field, the both of them becoming an academic force to be reckoned with. Sherlock was most certain of Molly’s success. He remembered, with both pride and fondness, reading the paper Dr Wright had showed him that detailed Molly’s research on decay and ‘time-stamping’ death. She was brilliant, and she deserved every bit of success and happiness. Even if he had no place in her happiness, Sherlock was grateful for this happiness.   
  
Upon hearing Sherlock’s question, Ayumi turned to observe him. She tried catching his gaze but saw that he avoided her. Sherlock had inhaled deeply, cricked his neck and shrugged his shoulders, as though preparing for a sporting event, or a fight. Ayumi smiled knowingly to herself. He was expecting the worst, and rightfully so. What had happened had not exactly been the rosiest of situations. However, Mycroft felt Sherlock would have a place here. He had a hunch that this would work, and Ayumi, who knew Molly, had the same inclination. Neither of them knew how this reunion was going to pan out, but both agreed it was the only way to go. Two gut feelings from two of the most perceptive people on the planet could not be that bad an idea.   
  
“Sherlock?” Ayumi spoke at last.   
“Mm?”   
  
Again, Sherlock had to summon his courage. This time, it was to get the courage to face Ayumi, to face her response to his question. He turned squarely to face her, not realising that he was holding his breath and clenching his jaw.  
  
“Brian left her.”   
  
There were two things that happened. Impossible as it was, Sherlock felt his heart burst. At first, it burst from shock. Then, it continued to combust in anger. The perfect picture of Molly’s happiness that he had painted in his mind had now been ripped to shreds, destroyed. The thought of _her_ heart being ripped to shreds, or _her_ smile being destroyed, set his heart aflame in a most excruciating way. Sherlock could not even begin to fathom why Brian would have left her. If everything was going so wonderfully as Ayumi had described, even Sherlock himself could not have separated himself from such obvious bliss. There was nothing Molly could have done wrong that would have driven Brian away, and it left the detective incensed.   
  
After the fuse had been blown, the second thing occurred. This time, his heart leapt in his chest. It lurched so hard it threatened to come out of his mouth. Molly’s happiness with Brian had emptied Sherlock of _his_ happiness. Now that a possibility presented itself, the urge to see her and _be_ with her surged in his veins. The detective had been propelled into hope once again. What disconnect that might have occurred between Molly and him would not have to remain like so. Sherlock realised that the great buzz he felt from the news of Molly’s loss was not the most appropriate reaction but he simply could not help it. He was curious to know why Brian had left Molly, but for now, it did not matter. The matter at hand was that he had.   
  
Sherlock began to laugh. Had this been the reason his brother was in such turmoil? Sherlock had always been aware of Mycroft’s intentions for Molly and him but why all these theatrics? There were still many questions unanswered. For instance, why did this hinder Molly from coming back to England? And why did Sherlock have to be rushed here so quickly? Surely this was more than just Mycroft being dramatic. Or was he wrong?  
  
“Are you all right, Sherlock?” asked Ayumi, peering at him, “You’ve not said a word.”  
“Sorry, I—” the explosions in his chest and the hyperactive cogs in his head continued to render him speechless.   
“If I may venture a guess…” Ayumi said, with a smile.  
“Yes?” Sherlock replied. He seemed breathless almost.   
“We won’t be stopping at a hotel,” Ayumi continued, as she instructed the driver to take them to the residence of Molly Hooper.

* * *

Brian had been very organised with his move out and within a week, none of his belongings remained in Molly’s apartment. In light of the break up, Molly had decided to re-do her apartment, shift a few things around to make it look a little different. It was the only way she could get over the fact that someone else used to live here with her. As usual, Ayumi had been wonderful, helping her to move the furniture, clear the house up and give it a little bit of a makeover.   
  
Molly had spent the whole day in her apartment, cleaning. It was a Saturday, so she had the whole day to herself. She contemplated asking Ayumi over dinner but realised she had not a thing in the larder anyway. Besides, Molly still had not quite perfected the art of cooking perfect Japanese rice. Now that she had a lot more time on her hands, Molly made a mental note to get Ayumi to teach her properly one of these days.  
  
She sat down on her tiny sofa that doubled up as a sofa bed and relaxed for a bit. Her back was starting to ache a lot more now that she was well into her third trimester. Thankfully, Molly had had a very smooth pregnancy so far. The moment she had discovered that she was with child, Molly, being the curious scientist that she was, began researching her pregnancy. She was most fastidious, fussing over every detail in managing her life and altering her lifestyle to maximise her health and that of her baby’s. Molly had never been more grateful that she was a scientist. She had read up so much that she was probably able to deliver her own baby if it came down toto it.   
  
As she sat, catching her breath, Molly looked down at her belly that had burgeoned so much she could barely see her feet. She smiled fondly at the mound before her, before leaning her head back, staring up at the ceiling. Brian had left so many months ago that she had lost count, but the ache of his selfish and unexpected departure rammed itself into her chest every so often. It was so strange, the collision of emotions that Molly felt in her body. On one hand, the little one that swum and kicked inside her brought her joy and an indescribable peace, but then there was that intermittent stab to the heart to contest with this newfound happiness. She was feeling it again. Slowly and steadily, the dull ache made its way into her rib cage. It began to grip her, the painful reminder that she had been abandoned. In the midst of their highs, she had been dropped. How did one’s heart crash and burn, and yet soar at the same time? Molly laughed quietly to herself and shook her head as a way of shaking off the reminder. He was gone now and this was how it was going to be from here on.   
  
“It’s just you and me now,” she said, feeling the reassuring swirl of the baby’s movement under her skin. All that housework must have woken him up.   
  
“You can keep swimming,” she said, placing a hand on her belly,  “But I’m going to have a little sleep now.”   
  
Slowly and awkwardly, Molly lowered herself onto her side and attempted to curl up on her narrow sofa. When she was finally comfortable, she flung one of her blankets around herself and tried to settle down to sleep. Molly had finally managed to wrap her toes up in the blanket when she heard the sound of her doorbell. Sighing, she disentangled herself from her blanket as she carefully propped herself up and managed to get off the sofa.   
  
“Coming…” she muttered under her breath.   
  
Molly looked through the peephole and to her surprise, saw Ayumi standing outside. It was awfully, cold for winter had already begun, and Molly could see Ayumi shifting her feet about, with her hands dug deep in her coat pockets. Molly did not want her friend to freeze and quickly swung the door open to let her in. Perhaps they could have that dinner after all.   
  
“Ayu! What are—”  
  
Molly froze, and it had nothing to do with the wintery weather outside.   
  
“Sherlock…” she uttered, her eyes wide in shock.  
  
Sherlock, too, had frozen, and not from the cold weather either. His quick detective eyes had scanned Molly, and when those eyes rested on the large belly that lay between them, they widened in surprised. Molly, upon seeing his reaction, brought a hand up to her eyes, covering her face as she grimaced. Sherlock’s shock did not last long. His gaze soon quickly returned to Molly’s face, trying to catch her eye. He could feel her discomfort at the situation, and the same utter confusion he had experienced. Except, Sherlock was now no longer confused. Molly sighed, unable to think of a single word to say.   
  
Sherlock, however, knew exactly what he wanted to say.  
  
He took a bold step forward, but was careful not to crash into her belly. Gently, he reached up to touch the hand that covered her face and slowly removed it, coaxing her to look back up at him. When she did, looking tentatively up at him, he smiled. It was no ordinary smile, for it came from a deep place of gratitude, a great relief that he now had a second chance. The warmth of his smile, together with the delicate way he still held on to her hand, surprised Molly in the pleasantest of ways. Unable to resist, she, too, smiled fondly back at him.   
  
“Why are you here?” Molly asked softly. “You…don’t have to be here.”  
  
The detective laughed, his eyes twinkling at her as his old spark gradually returned.   
  
“I am owed a visit…” he said, amused, as he reached into his pocket, “And I owe _you_ an earring…”


	29. Chapter 29

It took Molly a while for her to realise and accept that Sherlock Holmes had really shown up at her doorstep. Yet, even though he had been uninvited, to Molly, he would never be unwelcome.   
  
His appearance only began to feel real when Molly saw how brusquely he had stridden into her apartment, not bothering with manners, causing a delightful wave of nostalgia for her. Her head turned to follow his bold steps into her home. She smiled when she saw him scanning the place unabashedly whilst removing his coat and scarf as though he were back home in Baker Street. He then made straight for the kitchen, which amused her no end, and somehow figured out where all her tea things were and began to put the kettle on.   
  
It was all well and lovely until Molly realised with a start that Ayumi had also come along with Sherlock. A frown began to appear whilst her smile did the opposite, disappearing as questions began to stream in. Molly turned slowly to face Ayumi who stood calmly outside the flat with her hands still deep in her pockets. As Molly studied Ayumi’s tense frame, Ayumi looked back at her and smiled vacantly.   
  
“I wasn’t expecting to have to say goodbye so soon…” Ayumi began.   
“How…” Molly asked, unable to even pick one among the myriad of questions that collided in her head.  
“I suppose my job here is done.” said Ayumi.  
“Your job?” Molly remarked quietly.   
“You’re my friend, Molly, you always will be,” Ayumi said, smiling gently at her, “But I doubt you’ll feel the same way when I tell you that I’d been… _assigned_ to you. Except, instead of being assigned to spy on you, or kill you, I was assigned to be your companion.”  
  
There was a pause as certain pieces of information began to click in Molly’s head.  
  
“This is all Mycroft, isn’t it?” she uttered in realisation.   
“Yes, Mycroft.” Ayumi repeated, nodding.   
“You’re not…from the university… You’re not from HR…”   
“No, I’m not. I run my own international agency, and my people partner frequently with Mycroft’s people.” Ayumi explained, “But in your case, Mycroft personally requested my direct involvement, and I never say no to him.”   
  
Here now was a whole other wave that, once again, knocked the breath out of Molly. First, it had been Sherlock’s sudden arrival. Now, the woman she had befriended all this while was no regular consultant from the university’s Human Resource Department. Molly stood there, with one hand still frozen against the edge of the door, staring straight at Ayumi. She took a long, hard look at the person she now knew as an equal to Mycroft, someone who ranked on his same level. For him to have personally asked for Ayumi to be involved somewhat stunned Molly. It said a lot about Ayumi and her capabilities, and Molly did not know whether to be in awe or in fright of her. She could scarcely believe this revelation, for Ayumi had seemed so ordinary on the surface that Molly would never have guessed otherwise.  
  
Ayumi stayed where she was, braving the cold air outside. Now that she had made this revelation, she dared not assume that she was welcome. All the power she held in her capable and experienced hands meant nothing as she waited to see how her friend would respond to what could only be described as betrayal.   
  
“Everything makes sense now.” Molly said, at last.   
“I suppose it does,” Ayumi replied, nodding.  
  
Molly kept her eyes on the woman who was now revealed to be the agent assigned to her here in this new place away from home. The cogs in her mind spun, and her eyes were still wide from shock as she processed Ayumi’s words and everything that had transpired between them these two years in Japan.   
  
“So, now that Sherlock’s here, I doubt I’ll need to be around here anymore,” Ayumi said. She smiled, but it did not reach her eyes. Ayumi was going to miss Molly. No matter how all of this had happened, their friendship and been real and meaningful, and she was sad to see it go.   
  
“Goodbye, Molly. I hope you’ll be well. For what it’s worth, I really appr—“  
  
Before Ayumi could finish, the very heavily pregnant Molly finally released her death grip on the door and flung her arms around her friend.   
  
“This _all_ makes sense,” Molly said quietly to her friend, but this time, there was a little chuckle that followed.  
  
Stunned, Ayumi gingerly returned the hug, unsure if this was genuine affection or if Molly had gone mad.   
  
“Ayumi?”  
“Yes?”  
“Is _he_ … Mycroft then?”  
  
Ayumi’s eyes widened and she quickly stepped back as Molly removed her arms from around Ayumi, only to cross them on top of her belly.   
  
“Come on, confess,” Molly said, still chuckling.  
“I…no, I mean, Mycroft is…”  
“There’s no need to be all secretive now,” Molly interrupted, reaching to take her hand, “After all, aren’t we friends?”  
  
At her words, Ayumi looked up at Molly and then back down at her hand that was held firmly in Molly’s. Ayumi was speechless. She knew, from the very beginning, that this gift of friendship with Molly was always going to be temporary. Furthermore, Ayumi had effectively been lying to Molly from the moment they had met. Molly’s reaction, therefore, was truly unexpected.  
  
“Are we…really…still friends?” she asked tentatively.  
“As an agent on par with the great Mycroft, you really are quite silly…” Molly replied, smiling.   
“It’s just…”  
“You’re a good friend, Ayumi. I don’t care how we met, but I’m glad we did.”  
“But this has all been a lie. How am I still a friend?” Ayumi asked.   
“Don’t be daft,” Molly said, laughing, “You only lied about your assignment. And you had to. Everything else that you’ve been to me, I know is true.”  
“So…”  
“ _So_ , could you please come out of the cold and have some tea?” Molly exclaimed, pulling her friend in, “It’s not often we get a chance to have tea made by the great Sherlock Holmes.”   
  
The two friends burst into laughter as they walked into the warm apartment. Molly shut the door behind them while Ayumi began removing her coat and scarf. Ayumi was about to make her way into the kitchen when Molly stopped her, yanking her back to the doorway.  
  
“So, it _is_ Mycroft, isn’t it?” Molly whispered, not wanting Sherlock to hear their conversation.  
“Long story…” Ayumi answered, somewhat uncertainly.  
  
Molly laughed heartily again and moved to hug her friend once more.  
  
“I think I know most of it already, Ayumi,” Molly whispered, “Except that now, I have a face to put it to.”  
“I suppose you do,” Ayumi said, finally breaking into a genuine smile.   
  
The two friends stepped back from their hug and looked at each other. Molly had an amused smirk as she noted the bashfulness in her friend’s eyes.   
  
“We have a lot of catching up to do,” said Molly, teasing Ayumi.  
“That will have to wait.” interrupted Sherlock, with a tray of assorted tea mugs in his hands.   
  
The detective set the mugs on the table and beckoned for the two ladies to sit. He joined them in the tiny square of a sitting room and reached for a mug.   
  
“First, tea.” he said, stirring in two sugar cubes into his cup, “Then _I_ catch up with Molly.” 

* * *

The plans that Molly had had for having dinner with Ayumi were completely thrown out of the window with the arrival of Sherlock Holmes. At first, Molly had assumed that they were _all_ going to have a pleasant dinner at her place. However, the detective had, with all his usual tact and grace, sent Ayumi on her way, all in the name of ‘catching up first’.   
  
Of course, Ayumi had left willingly. Her job was done, at least for now. The reunion had not been overly dramatic and it seemed like it was going to go well. As Ayumi made her way back to her own residence, she chuckled at the memory of Molly’s apologetic face when Sherlock had ‘ushered’ her out of the door, forbidding Molly from even standing up to say goodbye to her properly.   
  
“You see her all the time,” he had said, almost accusatorially to Molly.  
“I just want to hug her goodbye, Sherlock,” Molly had replied, somewhat exasperated.   
“One less hug is not going to kill either of you,” he had continued.  
  
As the two of them continued bickering, Ayumi made her exit, quietly shutting the door behind Sherlock’s turned back while he continued insisting that Molly sit back down. Ayumi found herself smiling all the way to the car. She had good reason to. For one, things between Sherlock and Molly had gotten off to a good, if not rowdy, start. Secondly, and most importantly, she had not lost a friend.   
  
Back in her car, Ayumi leant back against the seat and realised only then how exhausted she was feeling. She had brought along some of her case files to read in the car but decided against it. She shut her eyes and before she knew it had to be woken by her driver when they arrived at their destination. Ayumi hastily gathered her case files and grabbed her things to get out of the car. When she stepped out, Ayumi was surprised to see that she was not at her home address.   
  
“Why are we here?” she asked, turning to her driver.   
“Orders.” he stated simply.  
“I see…” said Ayumi as she stepped up to the quaint sliding doors in front of her. She saw the familiar paper lanterns decorated with calligraphy, and smiled.    
  
Ayumi entered the humble, lit doorway of the establishment and was greeted by the warm scent of freshly roasted barley tea and the fragrance of seaweed, or _nori,_ being toasted over hot coal. The lady boss herself came to meet Ayumi, speaking to her with the highest of honourifics, bowing profusely as she ushered Ayumi to her private dining area. There, Ayumi sat herself down by the delicately carved rosewood table and was immediately presented with a lacquer tray. On it, lay a single envelope with her name handwritten on it. The lady boss and her assistant excused themselves, sliding the doors noiselessly as they proceeded to prepare her meal.   
  
She recognised the handwriting, the ink of the pen that had been used, and even the envelope. When she slit it open, she found a single piece of paper that had been folded. The crisp and slightly slanted script was instantly recognisable as well. She smirked when she saw that there was hardly anything written. The contents were shorter than a haiku. He really was a man of few words.   
  
_Ayumi_ ,   
_  
I’ve heard from Sherlock.  
Thank you.  
Enjoy dinner.  
_  
_M. Holmes_  
  
“I most certainly will,” she replied to thin air, folding the note neatly back into its envelope. She exhaled slowly and glanced around the beautiful dining room of her absolute favourite restaurant. Mycroft had certainly remembered well. Ayumi smiled a small smile to herself as she reached to pour herself a small cup of hot _sake_. Perhaps he would join her one day. For now, this arrangement was good enough. 

* * *

When the two of them had finally stopped bickering, they realised then that Ayumi had already left. It was Molly who laughed first, nearly dropping her tea. Sherlock, merely grinned, though he tried very much to suppress it.   
  
“You’ve chased my only friend away,” Molly said in jest, finally regaining enough composure to sip from her teacup again.   
“Your only friend?” Sherlock scoffed. “What am I then?”  
“Indeed,” Molly said with wry smile, “What are you, Sherlock?”  
  
The detective paused, realising his question had ricocheted back to him. Sherlock walked back to the sofa, settling himself back into his seat and looked up at Molly who was sat in the small armchair in front of him.   
  
“Well, seeing as I was also sent here, in some respect,” he said, “I’ll be whoever you want.”  
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Molly asked with a chuckle.  
  
Sherlock smiled and reached to retrieve the now empty mug of tea from her hands.   
  
“More tea?” he asked.   
“Please.” she said, as she curled up comfortably in her armchair, feeling genuinely relaxed for the first time in months. 

* * *

It surprised Molly, but Sherlock had settled in without drama and they had, in fact, begun a most harmonious co-existence in her tiny apartment. There was no spare room, so he made do with the sofa. Although it was a little on the short side, the detective managed to fit rather snugly. In any case, it was not like he did much sleeping, so it did not matter.   
  
The next surprising thing was his lack of involvement in her work. Although she was very much on maternity break, Molly saw no real need to miss work entirely. Whenever she could, she would still pop by the university hospital, where the labs she ran were, and keep tabs on her research. On a few occasions, she had invited Sherlock to follow her, but he had expressed no interest whatsoever in doing so. She tried all sorts of ways to entice him to go, showing him all the skin sample reports and all her experiment statistics. His interest was present, but it was never piqued.   
  
“So, last call. We’re studying the corroded samples today, want to come and see?” she asked, slowly shrugging her heavy coat on.   
  
Sherlock looked up from her personal laptop that she had lent him for the time being and immediately stood up to help her with her coat.   
  
“Are you sure you’re warm enough in this thing?” he asked, adjusting the back of her collar.  
“Will you stop fussing?” Molly said, just short of swatting his hands away from her, “You ask me the same question every single time I go out. This coat is more than enough, Sherlock.”  
“I suppose you’re right,” he answered, matter-of-factly. “Besides, you also have this.”  
  
Sherlock reached for the grey scarf draped across one of the hooks on her coat rack and gently looped it around her. He made sure to move her ponytail out of the way, letting it fall nicely over the swirls of grey fabric around her neck.   
  
“It suits you, this.” he said, with a quick smile.   
“And it suits _you_ ,” she said, smiling in return, “You sure you still want me to have it? It does belong to you, you know.”  
“I told you to take it with you,” he answered, “So take it.”  
  
Molly smiled and hitched her bag up onto her shoulder.   
  
“So, not coming?”  
“No,” he answered, settling back at her coffee table with the laptop.   
“What’re you always reading on my laptop anyway?” she asked, curious.   
“Well, I’m reading whatever you’ve read…”  
“What do you mean?” Molly asked, her eyes widening.   
  
The detective turned the laptop screen around to face her. Molly scanned the contents of what he was reading and raised an eyebrow. He smirked at her response and promptly turned the laptop back to face him.   
  
“Problem?” he asked, leaning back onto her sofa and putting the laptop on his knees.   
“Problem, no. Question, yes.”  
“Go on then.”  
“Why are you reading that?” she asked.   
“Because I’d finished reading all your pregnancy books,” he said, gesturing to the bookshelf by the door of her bedroom.   
“I’ve never seen you read those,” said Molly, surprised.   
“When you’re sleeping, or out,” he said casually. “Besides, I’m a fast reader.”  
“Of course,” she said with a laugh.   
  
Molly walked over to her shoe rack by the door and reached for her boots. She threw them on the floor and was about to step into them when Sherlock stood up to stop her, beckoning for her to sit down.   
  
“You are not putting my boots on for me, Sherlock Holmes,” she said, with a smirk. One by one, she slipped her feet easily into her simple black boots. This was a good pair, for there were no laces or buckles or straps that needed doing up. It was perfect footwear for her at this stage.   
  
“See? Perfectly fine.” she said with a victory smile.   
“Have a good day at the hospital.” he said, smiling briefly in return before returning to his laptop.   
“Dinner?” asked Molly, halfway out of the door.   
“Please.” he said, looking up at her.  
“Right. See you later,” said Molly, before stepping out and shutting the door behind her.   
  
When she was out of the apartment, Sherlock stood up again and went to the window by the door that looked out to the corridor. He saw Molly walk along it, then turn and take the stairs down to the road below. He watched, like a hawk, as she crossed the street and made for the train station. She really was marvellously independent, but the thought of her carrying another life inside her made him unduly anxious. He did not know when it had hit him, this instinct to be protective of her, but it was this instinct that had sparked off his research spree in her apartment. Sherlock saw no need in filling his mind with unnecessary information that he could always ask Molly about later, or read about in her paper later. For now, crucial information was any information pertaining to her pregnancy. He needed to know what the optimal conditions were for her health, what indicators to look out for to prevent any undesirable situations and what sort of environment was best for Molly and the child. He was pleased to discover she even had material on the delivery, should any emergencies crop up. She was wonderfully prepared.  
  
“Right…so where was I?” he said after finally peeling himself away from the window and heading back to the laptop. He searched for the section in Molly’s collection of PDFs that he had stopped at and continued reading. “There we are. _Foetal Heart Rate_ , section two…”

* * *

When Molly returned home, she was surprised to find her apartment empty. Sherlock was not where she had last seen him, and when she peered into the adjacent kitchen, he was not there either.   
  
“Sherlock?” she called out, as she set her house keys down and expertly kicked her boots off.   
“Molly,” he said, emerging suddenly from her little storeroom.   
“Oh god…” she exclaimed, trying not to laugh at the sight of him. “Have you been trying to do _housekeeping_?”   
  
The man who stood before her, the greatest detective in London, and possibly the world, had specks of dust in his hair, and clutched a little cloth in one hand and held a pail of water in the other. Most comical of all was the mask he had on to keep from breathing dust in.   
  
“I was just cleaning,” he said, yanking his mask down, “I read an article about dust particles and your respiratory tract. And if _you_ were to get an infection, then the baby would—“  
“Sherlock, put the things down,” Molly said with a laugh as she walked up to him and took the cloth from his hand. She chucked it into the sink at the back of her apartment where the laundry area was and commanded him to put the pail down. She then moved to remove the bits of dust in his hair, chuckling softly to herself as she did so. When she was done, she went to wash her hands and began to set up the dinner that she had bought.   
  
“First of all, Sherlock, I have something called a handheld vacuum. Secondly, sit down and come to dinner,” she said, removing the lids of the takeaway boxes of food.   
“Right…” he said, sheepishly tossing his mask and dusting off his shirt.   
  
They sat and ate quietly, as they normally did. Although Sherlock would interrupt from time to time, correcting Molly on her use of chopsticks. She merely rolled her eyes and said that she was hungry and told him to mind his own business. Both tried not to laugh, and focused instead on their food. When Sherlock was done, he set his chopsticks down, wiped his mouth and reached for the inside of his shirt pocket.   
  
“Oh, by the way…” he began.  
“Hmm?” answered Molly, rising from her seat as she started clearing the table.   
“I was dusting your room and—”  
“You just waltzed into my room without asking?” Molly interrupted, staring at him with a raised eyebrow.   
“Well, it’s the place where you sleep and I wanted it spotless.” he said very quickly, “But the thing is…”  
  
He had two small photographs in his hand and he placed them neatly on the table in front of her. They were two photographs of Molly and Brian in what were obviously happier times.   
  
“I saw these when I was wiping all the surfaces in your room and these were sort of just…there on your dresser so I had to shift them…” he said, clearing his throat nervously.   
  
Molly set the dinner things back on the table and stretched her hand to retrieve the photographs. She walked over to her bag and placed them neatly in one of the outer pockets. Sherlock did not miss the sudden drop in her expression, nor the quick wave of despondence in her eyes.   
  
“I’m sorry I…took them like that,” he said quietly, “I just didn’t feel right having moved them and…not told you…”  
“Well, you shouldn’t have gone sticking your nose there in the first place then,” Molly answered sharply.  
“I wasn’t sticking my no—”  
“Yes, cleaning, Sherlock, I know. You were cleaning,” she said, sitting down. She sighed quietly and put her head in her hands.   
  
Sherlock was now at a loss, and did indeed regret his moment of honesty. It was always hard for him to figure out what to keep covert and what not to. It was not often that Sherlock knew when he had crossed lines. It was rarer still that he should care that he knew. This evening, he was more aware than he had ever been, that he had once again hurt Molly and overstepped his boundaries.   
  
“I am sorry, Molly…” he said quietly, but earnestly. “Forgive me for being…rude and unthinking.”  
  
Molly laughed softly to herself from behind her hands. She then dropped them and looked up at Sherlock. There was that betraying glisten in her eyes that confirmed to Sherlock the photographs had upset her. Worse still, _he_ had upset her.   
  
“Molly, I—”  
“Of all times to apologise, Sherlock. And so sincerely too,” she said, smiling sadly at him. “Of all times to say you’re sorry, when you’re not the one I’m angry with.”  
  
Again, Sherlock could feel his heart tear itself in two directions. It lifted from the relief that he was the not the source of her unmistakable hurt, but it sank from the knowledge that her heart _was_ terribly, terribly bruised. The detective got up from his seat and moved to where she was seated and knelt beside her. Molly turned to see him looking right back at her, his eyes bright and sincere.   
  
“You really loved him, didn’t you?” he asked very quietly.   
“Loved him enough to get pregnant…and heartbroken, yes. Who knows, maybe I still do now…” she said, turning from Sherlock to stare blankly in front of her.   
“What happened, Molly?” Sherlock asked, “I want to know. So I can help.”  
“This is nothing you can help with, Sherlock,” she answered, almost laughing at him, “This isn’t a case, you know?”  
“You’re hurt. I consider it assault.” he remarked matter-of-factly.   
  
Molly finally laughed. Instinctively, she reached for Sherlock’s hand and held it tightly in hers.   
  
“You know what’s funny?” she whispered, looking down at him  
  
He shook his head, smiling gently at her as he quietly cherished the warmth of her hand that held his.   
  
“He knelt just like you’re doing now,” she said, “When he told me.”  
  
Her words prompted Sherlock to stand up right away, accidentally releasing her hand in the process.   
  
“I’m…sorry, I—”  
“Don’t be silly,” interrupted Molly, reaching for his hand again, “What are you apologising for?”  
  
Sherlock removed his hand from hers so as to reach over for the chair across, dragging it and placing it beside her. He sat himself down and automatically reached for her hand again. This time, it was he who held her hand firmly in his.   
  
“I shouldn’t like to remind you of any more hurt. As it is, I should have just left the photos as they were.” he said pensively.   
“Are you sure you want to know? I don’t think you knowing is value-adding in any way…”  
“You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want to.” he said, “But I do want to know.”  
“You’d be wasting hard-drive space,” Molly said with a chuckle, pointing cheekily at his forehead.   
“That’s where you’re wrong,” he said with a half-smile.  
  
Sensing the conversation’s end, Sherlock stood up and began to clear their dinner things, stacking their empty boxes and taking them away to the kitchen. Molly sat back and just watched him quietly. He returned to the table to collect the used chopsticks and glasses, bringing them to the sink. Sherlock was just about to turn the tap on to begin doing the dishes when Molly called out to him.   
  
“Sherlock.”  
  
His hand was poised literally millimetres from the head of the tap when he heard her call him.   
  
“Yes?” he said, turning around.   
“Leave that for later.” she said, “Come and sit with me.”  
  
Without any hesitation, Sherlock walked away from the sink and sat beside her, right where he had been sitting just moments ago. Sherlock saw that Molly had her hands clasped in front of her, and he watched as she clenched and unclenched her fingers. The tension in her hands inadvertently led to him clenching his own jaw. A worried frown etched itself in his eyebrows as he sat quietly, waiting for Molly to say something.   
  
She did not think it would feel this good. Molly had taken a deep breath, glanced quickly at Sherlock who sat still as a statue, and begun. Molly spilt every drop of this story that she had been holding inside her. The last time she had been this honest and vulnerable had been with Ayumi, when it had just happened. Now, months and months later, she did not expect such relief to flood her heart in exchange for the agony she was now pouring out to Sherlock.   
  
Like Ayumi had done before, Molly too regaled the glorious successes in her life and Brian’s. Thanks to the little ‘party’ she had Mycroft arrange back in London a year ago, one of the contacts Brian had made had offered him a contract to be part of a renowned research team in Copenhagen. In light of Brian’s placement in Copenhagen, Molly too, searched for her own opportunities there and easily found a place. The couple had every intention of cutting short their contracts in Keiō, so as to make the move to Denmark as soon as possible. They were excited, happy, proud of each other and literally could not have been in a better place in their lives.   
  
When Molly had discovered she was with child, the happiness had not waned for her. However, it had altered some of her decisions. She had decided against moving to Copenhagen, at least not as soon as they had planned. Brian, on the other hand, disagreed with her choice and was not keen on letting her settle down with the child in Japan first before moving. Molly had felt that a new baby, a new move and a new job would all be too much. Besides, she was perfectly happy in Japan and was content to stay a few more years, completing her five-year contract.   
  
“We argued about this for ages,” Molly said. “It just didn’t feel right to uproot again at a time like this…”  
“You still planned to be in Copenhagen,” Sherlock remarked, “What did a few years of waiting matter?”  
“That was the problem, I suppose,” she said with a shrug, “He couldn’t wait.”  
“ _Wouldn’t_ , not _couldn’t_ ,” Sherlock interjected.   
“The way he spoke about it, he made our baby feel like a sort of…parasite. He made it seem like it was just _my_ baby, not ours.” she recounted, wincing slightly at the memory, “It was as though _my_ baby was leeching off _his_ life and ambitions.”  
  
Sherlock nodded, but said not a word. He kept his eyes on her, simply waiting for her to continue. This was not the time to say something wrong. To his surprise, Molly chuckled and turned to him with a questioning look.   
  
“Well, aren’t you going to say it?” she asked.   
“Say what?” he asked in return.   
“That…I don’t know…you knew all along this would happen? ‘I told you so’, and all that?” Molly said with a smirk.   
“Why would I say that?” Sherlock asked, slightly taken aback.  
“Because I remember what you told me,” said Molly with a quiet smile.   
  
Sherlock frowned. Had he said something like that? It was another startling reminder that he really should do something about his manner of speech, particularly around Molly.   
  
“You were right, Sherlock. _So_ right.” Molly said, moving to hold his hand as though for support, “We were in the way of his ‘flourishing career’. And we were abandoned.”  
  
There was a sharp sting in Sherlock’s chest. Had he said those things? Had he really?   
  
“I’ve never wished so much to be wrong, Molly.” he whispered, gently running his fingers across her knuckles.   
  
She gripped his hand tightly, smiling pensively at their hands. Of all the people she imagined being her comfort, she would have never imagined it to be Sherlock Holmes. The thought amused her and a small smile appeared on her lips. The detective continued to stay quiet, keeping her hand in his, whilst remaining deep in thought. Molly had run out of things to say, but did not want Sherlock to leave. He had become a source of warmth to her, a reminder that she still had something to hold on to, that she still had her family. Yes, he was family. She did not know when, how or why he had become this to her, but he had.   
  
“Thank you, Sherlock, for being he—“  
“I would never have done this to you,” said Sherlock, blurting out his thoughts and interrupting her.   
“What?” Molly responded, amused.    
“I would have taken care of you, we would have talked about this,” he continued in his spiel, “I would have preferred to marry you, of course, but I’d never have left you pregnant like this…”  
“What are you talking about, Sherlock Holmes?” Molly interrupted with a soft laugh. She saw in his eyes that he seemed to have let something slip, and smiled in amusement.   
  
Molly patted their clasped hands with her free hand and smiled reassuringly at him.   
  
“I’ll be fine,” she said calmly.   
“Molly.”  
“Mm?”  
“I’d never have done this to you,” he repeated, as though not hearing a word she had said.   
“I know,” she said, nodding sincerely. He was a brutal man sometimes but she knew Sherlock Holmes did not have a single cruel bone in his body.   
  
“I would never hurt you, you know,” he said, softly.   
“Ah, but you have, Sherlock,” Molly said.   
“I know.” he said, with a single, solemn nod.   
  
She smiled to herself at his lowered head, and continued to keep their hands firmly clasped together. Molly wondered if he remembered that she had forgiven him. Perhaps this was his way of continuing his apology, she thought to herself.   
  
“But it’s fine now,” she said, finally, removing her hand from his and standing up. She bent carefully to kiss him quickly on the cheek, resting a hand on his face. “We can be good friends, and we can still help one another. As odd as this arrangement seems, I’m genuinely glad to have you here.”  
  
Molly walked over to the sink and beckoned for Sherlock to follow her.   
  
“It’s nice to be reminded of home, at a time like this.” she said, looking up at him with a smile.   
  
She began to sort the chopsticks and glasses and the few bowls and plates in the sink, stacking them carefully to ready them for washing. She smiled when she saw Sherlock come to stand beside her, rolling his sleeves up in preparation.   
  
“This feels familiar,” he said, amused.  
“I told you, you remind me of home.” she remarked, equally amused.   
“Which one?” he asked.  
“What do you mean?”   
“Bart’s, or Baker Street?”   
“Baker Street isn’t my home,” exclaimed Molly, as she too began to roll up her sleeves.   
“Well, it should be.” he responded, smirking.   
  
They both tried to suppress their laughter, but could not stop the grins on their faces.   
  
“Right,” Molly said, “You scrub, I’ll rinse.”  
“Certainly,” he replied, reaching across from her to take the sponge, but not without planting a soft kiss against her temple as he did so.


	30. Chapter 30

_Dinner was lovely. Thank you. - AM_  
_  
_ Ayumi had sent that message about two hours ago and there was still no reply. She resisted the urge to sigh, for this was to be expected. Conversation unrelated to a mission at hand or an emergency, and not initiated by Mycroft himself, was almost guaranteed to be a soliloquy. Realising this, Ayumi had gone about her own business, briefly going through her dossier of cases before deciding to turn in.    
  
Before turning her lights down, she turned to her side table and reached for her phone, swiping at its screen to see if he had replied. Naturally, the little text box containing her own words stared back at her, with no other words following it underneath.   
  
“Well, you’re a busy man.” she said to herself, “Countries to control, ministers to manage…”  
  
Her little tirade before bed was stopped short by a series of knocks on her door. Ayumi glanced quickly at her clock and frowned slightly. It was almost two o’clock in the morning and she had neither meetings scheduled nor visitors to expect. Without a sound, she reached for a small handgun she kept beneath a pillow and crept stealthily to her door. The knocking had ceased, but she could see from the way the corridor lights behaved from beneath her apartment door that someone was still stood outside. The handgun was held coolly in her experienced hands, poised to protect her from anything unwelcome. Gingerly, she reached for the doorknob and swung the door open, brandishing the gun and pointing it squarely at the face of the person standing before her.   
  
“I apologise for the late reply,” said Mycroft, who reached for the barrel of the gun in front of him and moved it calmly away from his face.   
“Mycroft?”   
“In the flesh.”  
“Why — Has something happened?” Ayumi asked, quickly ushering him in.  
“There’s always something happening,” he answered coolly, as he strolled towards her living room.   
  
Mycroft scanned the living area and settled on a black armchair. He leaned back and exhaled quietly, tilting his head back slightly, and glanced briefly at the ceiling. Ayumi took a good look at him and raised an eyebrow. Had there been an international emergency that she had missed? Had something happened to Sherlock? Or to Molly? She set the gun down on the little coffee table and sat herself in the armchair across from Mycroft. If there had been any sort of crisis, he certainly did not seem in any hurry to tell her.   
  
“I wasn’t expecting you,” she said, breaking the silence.  
“We work in the secret service, my dear,” he remarked, smirking, “ _That_ is to be expected.”  
“Oh my. Endearment _and_ jest? The world must be ending,” said Ayumi with a laugh, as she got up to walk towards her liquor cupboard, “Whisky, _my dear_?”  
“Please.” He was trying very hard not smirk, so Ayumi pretended not to notice.  
“You’re in luck,” she said, reaching for two glasses and his favourite brand of whisky. “I still have some of it left.”  
“It isn’t luck. It’s hardly difficult to deduce that you would still have some left.” he said with a wry smile.  
“Oh? And upon what logic did you base your deduction?” she asked, walking over to him and handing him his drink.   
  
Mycroft received the glass gratefully, the tips of his fingers gently but deliberately overlapping just the edges of hers. He felt the slight flinch of surprise in her fingers and smiled to himself.   
  
“Well, you see,” he answered, taking a small sip of amber-coloured liquor, “You never drink it without me.”

* * *

“It’s nice to have someone tall at home for a change,” Molly said with a chuckle, “Even Ayumi had to get on a chair to do that.”  
“I like to be useful,” Sherlock replied with a smirk, fixing the final hook into the wall.   
  
He stepped back and checked that he had placed all the hooks correctly, smiling proudly as he admired his handiwork. They were working on the final touches of Molly’s re-decoration of her apartment. Every trace of what her home was like when Brian was in it had been removed or changed. They were now down to putting up the last of the new photographs.   
  
“Here,” she said, passing him the final framed photo to be hung.   
“Which one is this then?” he asked, taking it in his hands.   
  
Sherlock held the white frame in his hands and studied the coloured photograph in it. It was a lovely group photo that had been taken at Baker Street.   
  
“Christmas…” he said. “Where was I?”  
“You don’t remember?” Molly asked, smirking as she folded her arms.  
“Christmas isn’t an important time of year for me,” Sherlock said.   
“Oh? You seemed rather keen on it last year…” she teased.   
“You were away,” he said, turning to look at her, “It was my only chance to see you.”  
“That’s a rather emotionally heavy response,” she said with a smile, “Certainly for you.”  
“It’s been an emotionally heavy few years…” he answered.   
“Perhaps. In any case, _that_ wasn’t a very pleasant Christmas for me.” she said, pointing to the photograph.  
  
Sherlock paused, as Molly’s words processed slowly in his head. It took a while, but he remembered at last.   
  
“Oh.”   
“Yes. _Oh._ ” she said, chuckling at him.   
“If it’s any consolation—”  
“I don’t need _consolation_ , Sherlock Holmes,” Molly interrupted, jabbing him in the arm.   
“Right, sorry,” he muttered, “What I meant to say was, I did quite like that shade of lipstick on you.”  
“Don’t make jokes, Sherlock,” she remarked, raising an eyebrow.  
“No, it looked good.” he said, turning swiftly to kiss her on the cheek.   
  
Molly stared back at him, a little surprised, trying to hold back an amused smirk. The detective shrugged, gave her a furtive half-smile, then returned to what he was doing. Sherlock lifted the photograph, then made sure to carefully position it where the hooks were.   
  
“Stand back and tell me if I’ve placed it right,” he told her.   
  
Molly did as he had said and moved to stand in the middle of the living room, checking to make sure it was not crooked or at the wrong height.   
  
“Looks fine from here,” she said, smiling as she took in the view of her brand new living space.   
“Good,” he said, stepping away from the wall and moving to join her.   
  
The two of them stood side by side, admiring their work for the day, especially that final photograph they had put up. Sherlock could not help but feel a little crestfallen that he had not been in the group shot. Shrugging off the feeling, he walked up to examine the photo up-close and noticed the corner of his desk peeking out from behind the group shot. Perched on the edge of the table had been Molly’s gift to him, the one she had given and that he had cruelly mocked, all those years ago. Somehow, the bold, red wrapping paper was a memory that never quite left him. It linked inextricably to the colour of her lips that evening, which now made him think of their unexpected kiss at Bart’s last year. He shook his head, as though trying to physically shake off the thought of their moment in the morgue. Sherlock could not deny how wonderful it had been, but he could not permit himself to recall it, no matter how wonderful.   
  
“Something bothering you?” she asked, coming up to stand beside him.  
“Hmm. Yes.” he muttered.   
“Are you thinking about my lipstick?” she whispered, glancing up at him with teasing in her eyes.  
“No—No!” he answered, a little too swiftly.   
“I’m only teasing, Sherlock, calm down,” she said, breaking into a soft chuckle.    
“There _is_ something I’m curious about though,” he said, squinting his eyes as he examined her little red present in the photograph.   
“Don’t leave me in suspense,” said Molly, leaving his side as she walked over to her tiny sofa.   
  
Sherlock turned when he sensed Molly had moved and saw that she had shifted to the living area. He moved to join Molly, who had settled comfortably, leaning her head back and relaxing into the sofa. The detective sat beside her, but angled his body such that he was facing her, and because of the way she was almost reclining, Sherlock seemed to loom above her.   
  
“So, what are you curious about?” Molly asked, looking up at Sherlock.   
“That present you gave me,” he said. “I saw it in the photo.”  
“Oh. That.”  
“Where is it?” he asked.   
“Why do you ask?” she asked in return.   
“I had put the present on my desk. It was next to my laptop,” he began, “But then I got distracted.”  
“Yes, you got a text, I believe.” Molly added.  
“Where is it?” he asked once more.  
“Why are you asking me?”  
“Because it’s not with me.” he said.   
“I didn’t think you’d remember it.”  
“I did then, and I do now, now that I’ve seen it again in the photograph.” he said, “I was going to keep it, Molly. That’s why I’d put it on my desk.”  
“Oh.”  
  
A wave of silence washed over the pair as Molly sat calmly, whilst Sherlock continued to loom over her. Molly looked up at Sherlock, her gentle brown eyes studying his face. He had such a serious expression on that it was almost comical. Molly bit down a smile, quickly averted her gaze and chose to focus on her huge bump instead.   
  
“I wanted to forget I ever gave it to you,” she spoke, at last, “And I wanted you to forget as well.”  
“Was I that horrible?” he asked, the corner of his lips lifting in a sort of embarrassed half-smile.   
“The worst,” she answered with a laugh, “The very worst.”  
  
Sherlock smiled at her response, but felt the familiar sting of remorse for having been so cruel to her. The grace she had always exhibited towards him was exactly that - pure, unadulterated grace. He deserved _none_ of it, but she had given it all to him. If there was one thing Sherlock knew about love, it was that Molly Hooper had loved him. She was the only one gracious enough to have loved him from the very start. He had always known, but always chose to discount it. Love was a hindrance, a barrier to all that Sherlock saw was important. It poisoned logic, which meant it poisoned _him_.   
  
Yet, he could not have imagined his life without having been loved by her. He was utterly against the notion of it. However, it was no longer a notion, no longer a construct. Love was her present at Christmas, and her forgiveness of his cruelty. Love was the fear that shook him when Evelyn had poisoned her, and the anger that rocked him when Brian had left her. It was her tentative fingertips on his cheekbone, their kiss in the morgue, and the pain of her absence. Perhaps he _had_ been poisoned, but it did not feel that way. There was no suffocation and there was no pain. The antithesis of all that was logical now seemed the most logical thing. It was no longer a notion because it had become more than that. His mechanism could now cope with her love, it seemed, as her love now spun along in perfect rhythm with the rest of the cogs in his mind.   
  
“Can I tell you something, Molly?” he asked.  
“Of course,”   
“Have you ever wondered, what it’s like for someone like me to, as you say, feel?”  
“I do, sometimes,” she said, smiling, “But it can’t quite compute, to be honest.”  
“Might I tell you what it’s like?”   
“Please.”  
  
He took a deep breath and looked momentarily away from her, glancing furtively at the photograph on the wall. When he turned back to her, he smiled. It was a heavy smile. It did not seem to carry much joy. Rather, it seemed to be a smile heavy with resignation. That smile shot a quiet little arrow through Molly’s chest, causing her to look up at him with worry.   
   
“Have you any idea how overwhelming it can be?”   
  
He had said it so quietly that Molly felt as though they were both sitting inside a confessional booth in a church.  
  
“No…I haven’t.” she answered, just as quietly.   
  
Molly had no idea where he was headed with this, and worried. She fixed her eyes on him, and he did not seem averse to fixing his gaze on her in return.   
  
“Just as I see everything, hear everything, sense everything, _absorb_ everything…I feel everything the same way. At the same level of maddening scrutiny.”  
  
Unaware of himself, he reached for her hand and held it loosely between his cool palms.   
  
“It almost drowns me, Molly. If I were to let it in, sentiment, I would _drown_.” he continued, “Love, grief, longing, joy, jealousy, rage…I can hardly breathe.”  
  
The feeling of her hand being gently caressed and tossed about between his palms was something Molly never wanted to forget. His gesture was such a rare moment of vulnerability, of sincerity almost. It may have seemed uncharacteristic of what everyone knew of the cold, calculating detective, but Molly had long known his heart, even before he knew it himself. She saw the pain behind his harshness, the worry behind his reticence, the human behind the machine. As she looked at the way he casually and so naturally held her hands, her fingers would gently reciprocate his touch wherever she could, whenever their fingers would meet. All this while, Molly had said not a word, so as to let him continue.   
  
“The reason I don’t like to… _feel_ , is because it is all too much.” he said, his voice tinged with exasperation, “It’s a sensory overload, Molly. You don’t know how much a heart can hurt, when your mind can see _so_ much and see _so_ well.”  
  
His hands tightened their grip around hers, properly clasping her palm between his. Molly smiled gently and, as a gesture of comfort, raised her free hand to lightly touch the side of his face. He turned slightly, responding to her touch, and the heaviness in his eyes seemed to lift.   
  
“You’re lucky then,” she remarked with a soft laugh.   
“How am I lucky?” he asked, squinting slightly.   
“You’re lucky you’ve never felt for someone like you,” she said with a small smile.  
“I don’t understand,” he remarked, frowning.   
“Having loved you, Sherlock…” Molly answered, “ _That_ kind of pain is unbearable. And if it was unbearable for me, it would probably kill you.”   
  
The detective sat up even straighter at her words. He looked away from her and blinked rapidly, a sign of confusion and something jamming with the cogs in his mind.   
  
“Perfect,” he murmured.  
“I’m sorry?” Molly asked. It was her turn to look confused.   
“Your choice of tense,” he said, turning back sharply to look at her.  
“I don’t under—”  
“ _Having_ loved me. Which means the verb in question has been finished, completed,” he interrupted, his words flying at the speed of light.  
“Sherlock, I—”  
“The logical implication of that, of course, is that you no longer love me _now_ , having _loved_ me already.” he continued, not giving Molly a single moment to speak.   
“Now, will you liste—”  
“So you don’t love me. You no longer love me. You loved me, you _have_ loved me. And now you don’t. You have finished your cycle of love for me…” he continued, his words moving fast and furiously.   
  
Molly had had enough of his spiel and removed her hand from his clasped ones, taking one of them and placing it on top of her bump. The detective went quiet the instant he felt the rapid movements under the skin of Molly’s bump as the baby swam and swirled about within her.   
  
“He disagrees,” she said calmly, keeping his hand firmly on her belly.   
“Why would he…disagree…” he asked, stuttering slightly. Sherlock blinked again, this time from awkwardness, having just burst out in emotion like that.   
  
“First of all, I don’t believe something called ‘a cycle of love’ exists,” she said, chuckling, “Second of all, he, of all people in the world, knows how happy I have become since you’ve been here.”  
  
Silence washed over them again like a slow wave. Sherlock, who had been mesmerised from the start with the baby and his movements in the womb, was now concentrating on feeling the baby swim about beneath his palm. Once, having helped Molly with cleaning out some cupboards, Sherlock chanced upon a stethoscope, and had taken it upon himself to perform regular checks on baby’s heartbeat, as well as to monitor Molly’s too.   
  
“Your baby _really_ prefers not to kick, you know,” he said, staring off into the distance as he concentrated on the baby, “His signature move seems to be somersaults instead.”  
“He does that most when he hears your voice, you know,” Molly said, smiling gently.   
  
When she said that, Sherlock snapped out of his staring stupor and glanced at his palm atop of Molly’s belly. He saw the way little bumps would appear and disappear on the fabric of her blouse, depending on how the baby was moving. It made him smile, it always did. The life inside of her fascinated him no end. Needlessly to say, this current series of small somersaults left the detective beaming.   
  
“Is that true?” he asked, turning to look at Molly.   
  
Molly smiled, and nodded, gently running her fingers across the knuckles of his palm that rested lovingly on her belly.   
  
“Do you think he loves me?” Sherlock asked pensively, turning back to look at her belly. There was no visible movement now under the fabric, but he did not remove his hand.   
“Of course, he does,” Molly answered swiftly.   
  
The detective looked up at Molly, wide-eyed at first, but slowly relaxed into a smile.   
  
“He loves you because I do, Sherlock,” she said, resting her gaze tenderly on Sherlock’s now perplexed face. His expression made her burst into soft chuckles. She wondered if his confusion stemmed from the sentiment overload of their conversation, or from the disbelief that she had always loved him, and always would.   
  
“You really should stop making jokes, Molly,” he murmured. For a moment, Molly saw the heaviness of resignation return to his eyes.   
“That’s one thing I’d never joke about, you silly man,” she said, sitting up and kissing him quickly but earnestly on the cheek.  
“How could you possibly still feel that way?” he asked, almost scoffing, ignoring her kiss. The resignation had now crept into his voice.   
“Well, you never let me finish—”  
“Go on then, finish,” he said, his voice hard.   
“Having loved you, unbearably painful as it was, has taught me one thing.” she began.   
“And that is?” he asked, cutting in brusquely.  
“It’s taught me, simply, that I do love you, Sherlock Holmes, and I probably always will” she said, calmly and thoughtfully, as though she had contemplated this for ages, “I am simply choosing not to.”  
  
Her words were both a burn and a balm to him. There was so much comfort, more comfort than he had ever imagined he needed, from the sheer fact that the love he subsisted on had not run out. She still bore the same sentiment and it brought him incredible relief. Her choice not to, however, was like the engine stalling in his car now that he had finally decided to take the road to his happiness. The burn of her words seemed to have frozen him, somewhat, as he remained silent, his back ramrod straight and his clear eyes piercing right through her.   
  
“Sherlock? Are you breathing?” she asked, reaching for his wrist and trying to take his pulse.   
  
Molly did not know if ‘shell-shocked’ was the right term to use this very moment but Sherlock certainly seemed it. If she thought the detective’s clockwork had jammed before, she was positive it had now officially come to a halt. In a sense, Molly was right. The cogs, wheels, springs and gears in his mind had completely shut down having had to spin out of sync and out of rhythm. As far as she could see, it was as though his hard drive was melting.    
  
“Sherlock?” she asked again quietly, “Are you all right?”  
  
The silence in his head was startling. Everything in his head that he had used to _make sense_ had now ceased all operation. The machine that was his mind was now as quiet as a disused factory. It was almost terrifying, to lose the clockwork he had relied on for so long. Sherlock was sure he would never recover, but just then, he felt the quiet stir and the soft hum of something else coming to life.   
  
“ _Oh_.” he breathed.  
“What?” Molly stared at him anxiously.   
“I’d always wondered, you know,” he said, a smile slowly appearing.   
“About what?” asked Molly, perplexed.   
“About why you never took up hard-drive space,” he answered.   
“O-kay…” Molly waited for him to continue, and was secretly relieved he was still breathing.   
“Everything I keep about you…anything _you_ , Molly, goes right here,” he said, pointing to his heart. “Oh, good Lord, I feel like a Hallmark greeting card…”  
  
His quick shift of expressions from deep pensiveness to the bashful horror of admitting the existence of a heart that beat amused Molly no end. She brought her hand up to her face and shook her head, grinning all the way.   
  
“It’s so strange, isn’t it?” she spoke, still with one hand over her eyes.   
“Right now, everything is a little strange, so if you could be more specific…”   
“I let my head decide for my heart,” Molly continued calmly, “And you, have just done the opposite.”  
“Thank you for reminding me,” the detective muttered as he grimaced into his palms.   
“Who would have thought, eh?” Molly said with a laugh.   
  
Placing a hand on his shoulder, Molly used Sherlock as a prop to slowly get up from the sofa. He automatically placed an arm behind her back, gently supporting her as she straightened.   
  
“I think it’s a good time to break for tea, don’t you?” she asked, turning to him.   
“Yes,” he said, getting up to follow her.  
  
The pair walked wordlessly into the kitchen, working in perfect, quiet synchrony as Sherlock put the hot water on and Molly prepared the cups and the teabags. As they waited for the water to boil, they both moved to stand beside each other, leaning against the sink.   
  
“My head hurts,” said the detective.  
“Shouldn’t it be your heart?” Molly teased.   
“That too,” he said, with a small smirk.  
“I’m sorry,” said Molly quietly, wanting to reach for his hand but deciding against it.   
“Don’t be,” he said softly in reply. His head was bowed and with a small, sad smile on his face.   
“I never thought we’d ever come to this, you know?” Molly said, smiling bitterly, “I never thought I’d ever say _no_ when it came to…you.”   
  
Sherlock laughed quietly and nodded.   
  
“To let the head rule the heart, or the heart rule the head, that’s always been the question, hasn’t it?” the detective remarked wistfully.  
“And we’ve done what the other would normally have done,” Molly said, only to chuckle sadly.  
“Hmm. Indeed we have,” said Sherlock, glancing over at Molly.   
  
The electrical kettle’s little lever clicked, signalling the water was done, but the pair remained rooted to their spots. The air was still and it was dead quiet, save for the slight hiss and gurgle from the freshly boiled water.   
  
“For what it’s worth, Molly…” said Sherlock, suddenly.   
“Mmm?” she turned to him in response.   
“Remember what you said to me at the morgue? The very last time I saw you?”  
“I said a lot of things then, Sherlock,” Molly recalled, with a laugh.   
“Do you remember what you said…about how you felt about me?”  
“Ah,” Molly said with a smile, “That I love everything about you?”  
“Hmm, yes, that one.”  
“What about it?” Molly asked, casually crossing her arms.   
“I… Well, I… feel the same way,” said Sherlock with a slight frown on his face.   
“That you love everything about _you_ too?” Molly said with a chuckle.   
  
Her response made Sherlock laugh, and it was a proper laugh too. Shaking his head, the detective studied his shoes, only to sigh quietly.   
  
“No, that isn’t it,” he said softly.   
“Then what is?” she asked gently.   
“I feel the same way,” he repeated, “About you. And I think I always have.”  
  
Despite all the reservations Molly may have had about Sherlock’s sincerity, she found herself unable to doubt it this time. First, she had witnessed the demise of the head that ruled his heart. Now, she witnessed the revelation of his sentiment, and not just any old sentiment, but the sentiment he bore for her. Molly did not want this to be significant, but the tiny leap in her heart certainly proved that yes, this was significant. _He_ was significant. The man who had taught her the misery she knew, had now become the single, happiest thing in her life right now. If anything, the sudden flurry of somersaults from the life within her was evidence of that. Suddenly, Molly felt at a loss. It was a joyous kind of loss, but confusing nonetheless.   
  
“So, what of it?” she asked, as casually as she could. She quietly cursed the steady increase of her pulse as she looked up at him, awaiting his response.   
“I don’t know,” he replied with a shrug, “I’m just as at a loss as you are,”  
“And how could you have known that?” she asked, amused.   
“Because I’m Sherlock Holmes,” he answered, smirking at her.   
“You have to stop that, you know…” she said, with a sigh.  
“What?”  
“That…half smile, half…I don’t know. A smirk, yes, it’s called a smirk…”  
“Oh, sorry. Is it rude? I don’t have a mirror, so I can’t see my own facial expre—”  
“It’s not that,” she said, laughing.  
“I’m confused.”  
“It’s because you look lovely and I’m in love with you, all right?” she said, staring up him with her bright, brown eyes.   
  
The beautiful deep colour of her eyes sent a jolt through his system. She had not looked at him like that in a long time. This was familiar, and it felt all sorts of wonderful. The corners of his lips began to lift into a smile, a real smile with none of the grey and gravity from before.   
  
“Sherlock?” said Molly, her voice snapping him out of his thoughts.   
“Hmm?”   
“You look like you’re going to kiss me.” said Molly, raising an eyebrow in concern.  
  
The smile did not leave the detective’s lips as he turned his whole body to face her.   
  
“That’s because I am,” he replied.   
“Oh.”  
“May I?” he asked, lowering his head to gently meet her gaze.   
  
That sense of feeling lost continued, as her head battled with her heart.   
  
“Why would you kiss someone who’s chosen not to love you?” she asked quietly.   
  
He chuckled softly and stepped forward, drawing her carefully to himself. Sherlock wrapped his arms around Molly and kissed her hair, shutting his eyes as he savoured the warmth of this closeness, this proximity with the only one who had ever mattered.   
  
“Because you had done it first,” he whispered.   
“Done what?” she asked, snaking her arms around him too.   
“Love a man who didn’t love you, and even when he did, chose not to love you…”  
“Why are you talking about Bri—”  
“I’m not talking about Brian,” he interrupted gently, “I’m talking about me.”  
“Oh.”  
“Yes. _Oh_.” he echoed, chuckling.   
  
Molly sighed against his shirt, not wanting to let go, but knowing she had to. Eventually, she loosened her grip on him, and he followed suit. They separated, standing as two individual people once more, but smiling affectionately at one another.   
  
“So, tea.” he said, walking over to the kettle. “Better get it started before the water gets cold.”  
“Hmm, yes.” Molly said, moving to set the cups on the dining table.  
“Tea, then time for me to check baby’s heart-rate,” he said, as he poured water into both their cups.   
“You’d just done it two hours ago, Sherlock,” Molly said, settling into her seat.  
“As we get closer and closer to your due date, I like to keep closer tabs, that’s all,” he answered plainly, taking his seat as well.  
“You’re acting like a paranoid father,” she remarked with a laugh, blowing across her teacup.   
“I should be so fortunate…” he said wistfully, lifting the cup to his lips.  
“Sherlock…”  
“Don’t start feeling sorry for me, Molly.” he said, smiling as he set his cup back down. “As it is, I’m grateful enough to be here. With you. I could not ask for more.”  
“I’m glad you’re here too,” said Molly, smiling gratefully at him.  
“Good,” he said, with a satisfied nod.   
  
They continued to sip their tea in their comfortable silence, once in a while having their gazes meet. Whenever their eyes met, it seemed like they could see deeper into each other now. Having bared their souls like they had, it was as though the last of their old walls had crumbled.   
  
“On the topic of gratitude, Molly,” said Sherlock, suddenly. He had finished his tea and stood up to pour himself another cup.  
“Yes?” she replied, raising an eyebrow.  
“What _was_ in that Christmas present?”

* * *

“Would you like another glass?” asked Ayumi.   
“Just the one will do, thank you,” Mycroft replied.   
“Well, I’m having another,” she said, getting up.   
“Bad day?” he asked, his eyes following her.   
“I don’t know,” she said, stopping and turning to face him, “You tell me.”  
  
Mycroft sighed and placed his empty glass on the coffee table in front of him. He stood up, straightened his jacket and began to make his way to her door.   
  
“I shouldn’t have come,” he said softly.   
“Why did you?” she asked, walking towards him, “You never…do _this_.”  
“I know, we don’t.”  
“And so?” said Ayumi, crossing her arms, “I’ll ask you again, Mycroft, has something happened? Why are you here?”  
  
He smiled wryly to himself, drumming his fingers over the polished umbrella handle he had in his hands.   
  
“My brother’s little adventures out here have resulted in some contemplations of my own.” he said, concentrating on the faint sound of his nails tapping against the varnished acacia.  
“And what do these contemplations have to do with me?” asked Ayumi.   
  
Mycroft looked up at her and smiled in response, before turning to open the door. With one foot out of the door, he turned slightly, catching her eye so as to keep a picture of her in his memory.   
  
“Everything, Ayumi,” answered Mycroft, at last, “Everything.”  
“That…is virtually impossible,” Ayumi said, almost scoffing at him. “Unless there’s a case you’re telling me about is no way on earth I would have anything to do with your ‘contemplations’.”  
“Perhaps,” Mycroft said, with a shrug.  
“Don’t _perhaps_ me, Mycroft,” Ayumi said, laughing, “We both know that if you had to choose between saving the Queen of England and saving me, you’d save the Queen. “  
“Yes, I would save the Queen. It would be my duty.”  
  
Ayumi sighed and ran a tired hand through her tousled hair.   
  
“And that—” she said, shaking her head and smiling, “Is _exactly_ why I love you.”  
  
Her words made him smile, but Ayumi deliberately looked away. She did not want to see the effect her words might have on him, or worse, the _lack_ of an effect they would have on him.   
  
“Goodbye, Mycroft,” she said, turning away from him to start clearing the table.   
“It was good to see you, Ayumi,”   
  
When she heard the door click, Ayumi exhaled as though she had been holding her breath in the whole time. She did not know which hurt more, her head or her heart. His visit perplexed her, but she gathered her wits about herself and chose to pretend that the visit never happened.   
  
“You make your choices, and I’ll make mine,” she whispered resolutely to herself as she clicked the whisky cupboard shut and made her way to bed at last.


	31. Chapter 31

The speed at which Molly walked had now reduced significantly from the sheer weight of her pregnancy. Nevertheless, she was in very good health, and so was the baby. This was largely thanks to a very fastidious Sherlock Holmes who fussed about her as though she were royalty. Molly had finally taken the maternity leave she was given and would have been bored out of her mind had it not been for Sherlock Holmes. Entertaining her had not been intentional, but his presence and little antics had inadvertently served to amuse the pathologist.   
  
They were a few days past the given due date, but neither of them worried because they were still well within a healthy gestational timeframe. The delay did mean, however, that Molly had become a lot more compliant when Sherlock wanted to perform what he deemed ‘routine and mandatory’ health checks for her and the baby. Every hour or so, she would either have a thermometer stuck in her mouth or the uncomfortable fabric cuff of a sphygmomanometer wrapped around her upper arm. On many occasions, Molly had found herself rudely awoken due to the sudden presence of a stethoscope sliding over her belly.   
  
This morning proved entertaining in a different fashion. As Molly slowly made her way out of her bedroom into the kitchen, she was surprised to see that it was nine o’clock but had not been pounced on for the hourly temperature checks. Sherlock was not exhibiting his usual neurotic ‘father-to-be’ type behaviour. Instead, her self-declared ‘in-house physician’ was still as stone, sitting cross-legged on her sofa, utterly absorbed in a book. The book was of a narrow, rectangular shape and somewhat thick, about an inch-and-a-half thick, perhaps. It was also tremendously fragile. Its spine was peeling in some places, and one could see bits of the binding string that held it together. The pages were light, crisp and stained with age, as though they had been dipped in coffee and left to dry.   
  
Molly stood silently, observing him for a moment, unable to resist smiling to herself. She saw the little frown that appeared on his brows as he focused on his reading. Knowing him, he was probably trying to memorise every word in the book, chapter headings and all. Or perhaps he already had, and had now moved on to organising the information in his mind. He did not seem to have noticed her. With very careful fingers, he touched the corner of the fragile page, turning it as gently as possible. There was something so gloriously childlike about the way he let himself be absorbed in the study of things. Molly marvelled at the intense concentration, which was the result of his intense fascination with the book in his hand.   
  
“How many times?” she asked finally, walking slowly to the kitchen to get some water.   
“Currently on the third,” he answered, without looking up.  
“Why?” she asked, chuckling as she searched for her glass.  
“The first is the initial input, the second is to confirm I’ve remembered it right,” he began, his eyes still glued to the page, “And the third is because there are diagrams, which necessitates a second round of input. I suspect a few more rounds to come. There is a _wealth_ of information in here…”   
  
Molly sipped her water and smiled. It was good to see him so happy. She felt relief almost, after having made him so miserable. Despite having been told by the man himself not to feel sorry for him, she could not help it. It did not help that she knew he was hurt, and that she had been the one who caused it. Objectively, she could have easily laid claim to the fact that they were now properly even. He had hurt her, and now she had hurt him. An eye for an eye and all that jazz, but this was no objective matter. How could any of this ever be objective anymore? Not even the man himself could treat this situation objectively anymore. Even _he_ had heeded his heart, the man who once only followed his head.  
  
“I really wish you hadn’t withheld this from me, Molly…” he muttered, while flipping to another page.   
“You only have yourself to blame, you know,” she said, smirking as she lowered herself carefully into the space beside him.   
“I know,” he said, looking up at last and turning to her sharply. “You’ve forgiven me about that, haven’t you? I’ve lost track of my transgressions.”  
“Well, I’ve given you your gift, haven’t I?” she said, eyeing the book in his hands. “I was going to throw it away that night, you know…”  
“I’m glad you didn’t.” he said, solemnly.   
“Me too,” she said with a nod.   
  
The detective smiled, suddenly overcome with the urge to kiss her. He remembered that he could not, however, and so turned his attention to the very belated Christmas gift in his hands.   
  
“The first beekeeping journal ever published…” he murmured, closing the book carefully and admiring its cover. “I don’t know how you do it, Molly,”  
“Do what?” she asked.   
“Know me,” he answered, “You literally read me like a book.”  
“Well, I can’t take all the credit,” she said with a smile.   
“Why not?”  
“I learnt how to _read_ …from you,” she replied, chuckling, “Besides, your beekeeping aspirations aren’t that big a secret. I nearly knit you a black and yellow jumper once, just for a laugh, but decided you wouldn’t appreciate it.”  
“You’re right,” he said, smirking, “I wouldn’t. But this… _This_ , I do appreciate.”  
“I know,” she said, with a soft smile.   
“Thank you,” he said, setting the book down.   
“You’re welcome, Sherlock,” she said, “Now, it’s already nine-fifteen, aren’t you forgetting something?”  
  
At her words, he glanced swiftly at the clock on the wall and gasped to himself. Immediately, he leapt off the sofa and hurried to the shelf that held all his medical paraphernalia. He soon returned with his stethoscope and a logbook he kept of her.   
  
“Sorry, I’m late,” he said with a smirk as he popped the eartips of the stethoscope into his ears.  
“Better late than never,” she said, smiling at him in return.

* * *

“Are you sure you’ll be all right?” he asked for about the twelfth time.   
  
Sherlock was leaning against Molly’s bedroom doorway as he looped his scarf around his neck and waited for Molly’s confirmation. She was lying comfortably in her bed with her feet slightly propped up. It was late afternoon and Molly was preparing for a little snooze.   
  
“I’ve lost count of the times I’ve said this,” she said, yawning, “But _yes,_ Sherlock Holmes, _yes._ ”  
“Right, sorry,” he muttered sheepishly as he adjusted his coat collar, “I’ll buy us dinner on the way back. The usual?”   
“Yes, thank you,” she murmured sleepily, “Now, go. Don’t keep your brother waiting.”  
  
The detective tried not to sigh after having been reminded of his brother’s somewhat mysterious errand that he was setting out for.   
  
“I’m off then. See you later,” he said with a single, sharp wave.  
“See you later,” she said, with a smile.   
  
Despite having told Mycroft that he could make his way over by himself, his brother had insisted on readying a car. Sherlock took the stairs that led him to the street where the purring automobile was there waiting. When he got in, he began to see if he could work out his brother’s motives for this errand. Ordinarily, Sherlock would have refused such a benign task, but he did owe his brother. In fact, he owed his brother a lot. Mycroft was certainly very aware of this and was on the verge of listing everything he had ever done that got Sherlock to be here with Molly, when Sherlock stopped him and agreed to whatever Mycroft wanted of him.   
  
It was curious though, the nature of this assignment. _Just tell me what she’s doing, how she is behaving. Use your regular powers of observation and I’ll make do with your report_ , his brother had said, rather snappily, over the phone. Again, his brother’s derisive tone had given Sherlock just cause to refuse, but curiosity over the matter got the better of the detective, so he agreed.   
  
When Sherlock arrived, he was surprised that the building she resided in had not been as lavish as he had expected. Thinking about it, however, Sherlock realised that while Ayumi was, in too many ways, intertwined with his brother, she was _not_ his brother. She was far less dramatic and most certainly had far fewer needs than his brother had. Besides, she was someone who never minded the legwork that came with their occupation. In that regard, she had earned Sherlock’s great admiration. In fact, he often wondered why someone like her would want anything to do with someone like Mycroft. This was another trait that he admired and puzzled over frequently - the tolerance she had for his brother.    
  
Sherlock found the door to her apartment and knocked at it gently. He waited and could hear faint footsteps coming towards him. When he deduced they were near enough, he identified himself and asked if he could come in. The door swung open and Ayumi was there, greeting him with a curious gaze that told him she had not been expecting him.   
  
“Is it the baby?” she asked immediately, “Why didn’t you just call? I could have met you at the hospital or something. Is she all right?  
“Molly’s safe at home, having a little sleep,” he said, with a quick smile, “I’m here to see you.”  
“You are?” Ayumi asked, eyeing him quizzically, “Will I have to invite you in?”  
“Preferably,” he said, “I have a report to give, apparently.”  
“Come in then,” she said, leaving the door ajar for him.   
  
The detective entered and quietly shut the door behind him. The first thing he did was to examine the premises. He had never seen her apartment before, but could tell that nothing was out of place and that the peace had not been disturbed. _Well, she’s not in danger_ , thought the detective to himself. Her apartment seemed safe and he saw no sign of any intrusion or unwanted surveillance anywhere. It was a little difficult to collect information when Sherlock did not quite know what he was looking for. Still, he did his best with what he could make of his brother’s vague and rather moodily-given instructions  
  
“Have a seat,” she said, “Can I get you something?”  
“No, thank you,” replied Sherlock, settling on an armchair in the corner.   
“So, how can I help you?” she asked, seating herself in an armchair opposite.   
“You don’t know why I’m here?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.   
“Not in the least,” she answered, shaking her head.   
“Hmm. Well, this is odd.” Sherlock remarked.   
“How so?”  
“I had assumed there was a case to discuss,” he said, shrugging and leaning back into his seat. “Isn’t that why my brother has sent me over today?”   
“Excuse me — Your brother?” she said, a little sharply.   
  
The change in her tone perplexed the detective, as had the general change in his expectations of the situation. He had assumed he was there to collect information, information either related to Ayumi, or that Ayumi was holding for Mycroft. The nature of the information had eluded him, but it did not elude the shrewd agent before him.   
  
“This doesn’t happen often, I assure you, but I am…for lack of a better word, befuddled.” he said, bringing his palms together and drumming his fingers against each other.   
“I’m not,” she said, getting up.   
  
Ayumi walked to the door and opened it before turning to look at the detective. Sherlock did not understand her gesture and simply responded with a confused gaze.   
  
“I’m asking you to leave, Sherlock,” she said, answering his question.   
“But…why?” he asked, refusing to budge.  
“You had better leave before you realise why you’d been sent here,” she said smiling wryly.   
“What could be so top secret that it would evade me?” the detective asked, disgruntled.   
  
His irritation amused Ayumi and she shook her head, smirking. For a detective so astute, his emotional innocence was his greatest blindness. Mycroft had often talked to her about Sherlock’s ‘blind spot’, so much so that it had almost become synonymous with the name “Molly Hooper”. Despite all that had happened, the detective still remained blind in these aspects. Except this time, it was not himself that he was being blind to.   
  
“Your brother’s heart,” answered Ayumi, smirking, “And well, it evades me too.”  
  
It was as though alarm bells had gone off inside his head. So loud were the chimes of realisation that Sherlock could not tell if he had gasped audibly or not. His jaw dropped as the full weight of Ayumi’s words sank in.   
  
“So…when he asked me to report on what you were doing, he really just wanted to know how you were?” the detective asked.   
“You know your brother,” she remarked with a nonchalant shrug, “His ways are always complicated.”  
“Did something happen?” asked Sherlock.  
“That depends on the angle you take,” Ayumi answered matter-of-factly.  
“What angles are there?” the detective was perplexed again.   
“If you’re asking if something happened between the head of the British Secret Service and the head of an international intelligence organisation, then no, nothing happened. Everything went smoothly and according to plan. There is nothing to report and in fact, now that _you’re_ here, our case can almost be considered closed,” Ayumi said without skipping a beat.   
  
The detective finally got up from his seat and moved to where Ayumi was standing. He stuck his hands in his coat pockets and dropped his gaze as he shifted about uncomfortably. Despite everything that he had been through with Molly, his brother’s emotional landscape was territory he had no desire of trespassing, much less entering. What Ayumi had said bothered him. He did not want to pursue the matter, and yet, could not help himself.   
  
“And what about between Mycroft and Ayumi?” he asked.   
  
She smiled. It was a complicated one. Sherlock could sense confidence, but one tinged with compromise. Resolution, but laced with resignation.  
  
“I haven’t decided yet,” she answered with a laugh.   
“What’s there to decide? Either something happened, or nothing happened.”  
“Would it confuse you if I said it was both?” said Ayumi with a smirk.  
“Yes, terribly,” said the detective.  
“He came to see me,” she said, suddenly.  
“Hold on a minute — he _came_ to see you…Here? In this country?” asked the detective.   
“Why, yes…”  
“I thought he had been in England all this while,” said Sherlock, thinking back on his phone conversation, “How did I miss this?”  
“Perhaps he’d gone back when he called you,” Ayumi suggested.  
“No, that’s not it. I didn’t think he would come out here at all. I mean, that’s why I’ve come to see you. I thought I had to come meet you because he couldn’t…” Sherlock exclaimed.  
“Ah, well, you thought wrong. He did come over…”  
“I can’t believe he’d come all the way here to see you.”  
“Well, you did that for Molly,” reminded Ayumi,  
“Yes, but that’s because — _Oh_.”  
“This is not the time for a deduction, Sherlock,” Ayumi warned, shoving him gently but firmly out of the door.  
  
Sherlock let himself be pushed out of the door, but not before turning back to face Ayumi squarely.   
  
“He came to see you,” Sherlock repeated.  
“Yes, an extraordinary gesture, I know,” Ayumi remarked sharply. Sherlock’s presence was frustrating her in that it reminded her of a visit she had nearly succeeded in forgetting.  
“Did he drink the whisky?” he asked. For some unknown reason, Sherlock had whispered it.  
“You make it sound like a euphemism for something,” Ayumi exclaimed with a laugh.  
“Maybe it’s because you were expecting one,” the detective said with a knowing smirk.    
“Well I don’t anymore, if that was your concern,” said Ayumi, beginning to close the door.   
  
Before he let the door be completely shut in his face, Sherlock blocked it with his foot and stuck his head into the doorway.   
  
“What would you like me to tell him?” he asked, “I do have a _report_ to compile.”  
  
Ayumi smiled and eased Sherlock’s foot gently out from her doorway.   
  
“You can tell him that I thank him for the visit, and that if he should ever like some more whisky, he needn’t trouble himself with another visit,” she said, tapping her fingers against the edge of the door, “I’d be happy to send a case over.”   
  
With those parting words, Ayumi thanked Sherlock for his own visit to her abode, and shut the door at last. Sherlock remained baffled, but not because he did not understand the situation. What confounded him was how well he had begun to grasp it instead. Additionally, it troubled him greatly that he was now beginning to feel the slightest twinge of empathy for his brother.   
  
As Sherlock sat in the car on the way back, he contemplated the words to say to his brother. Should he even be _saying_ anything to him? Perhaps sending him texts might be the better way. How he had come to be in the middle of this irritated him, to say the least.  The history between the two of them went so far back that Sherlock regretted deleting so much of it. Nevertheless, Sherlock had never been involved, and felt it was best to stay as uninvolved as possible.   
  
All through the journey, Sherlock simply could not find the nerve to dial for his brother, or to even text him to say he was en route back. He did not know what to say, for starters, but he certainly knew what _had_ been said, at least where Ayumi’s sentiments were concerned. The detective sighed and decided not to think about it for now. Shoving his phone back into his pocket, he pinched the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes.   
  
He would sort it out later. 

* * *

As usual, the pair that was Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper stood by the sink as they did their normal dishwashing routine after dinner. They were down to the last glass and Molly was waiting for Sherlock to hand it to her so she could dry it and keep it away. When he was finally done with it, Molly received the glass and promptly dried it and returned it to a cabinet. She was carefully folding the tea towel she had been using when Sherlock turned around to lean against the sink. He looked up and stared at nothing in particular, letting out a quiet sigh. By sheer force of habit, Molly was inclined to stay silent and just ignore him. Despite the recent evolutions in their friendship, and therefore his behaviour, Molly was still programmed not to disturb him and not to say too much. In her bid not to disrupt his thoughts, however, she ended up staring at him a little too intently with a slight frown on her face. It was her staring that caught Sherlock’s attention in the end.   
  
“You look worried,” he said, turning to her.  
“And you look troubled,” she replied.   
“I am,” he confessed, retuning to stare blankly ahead once more.  
  
It never failed to make Molly smile when Sherlock softened like that. The iciness in his eyes would melt away momentarily, revealing just a little of his very, very human soul. She placed the towel back on the rack it belonged on and moved to stand beside him. The sink had become their default place for discussions or any daily contemplations they might have had. Molly too, rested her back against the edge of the sink and kept him in silent company. For a moment, there was an automatic desire to want to lean against his arm as a show of comfort for whatever it was that troubled him. Molly resisted, smiling despondently to herself as she recalled, very loudly and clearly, the choice she had made not to love the man she did.   
  
“Is it anything you’d like to talk about?” she asked quietly, “Or is this okay?”  
  
Sherlock turned to face the pair of concerned brown eyes that looked gently up at him. All his life, he had spent every moment alone. The troubling ones especially. Never could he imagine the luxurious warmth that now filled his chest as he spent this particular troubling moment with someone he cared about very deeply. The nearness of her was something he found new and wonderful each time. At a time like this, the urge to be nearer to her overwhelmed him. He looked at her hands and contemplated those. He looked at her soft ponytail and contemplated that. He looked at her lovely shoulders and contemplated just putting his arms around them. Surely they would not count as romantic? At least not too romantic.   
  
The detective looked away, shaking his head as he smiled secretly to himself. Molly caught it, nevertheless, and jabbed him softly in the ribs.   
  
“I saw that little grin…” she chuckled softly, “What’s that about?”  
“Do you really want to know?” he asked, turning to her with that very half-smile she had told him to stop doing.   
“I’m — not sure,” she replied, looking quickly away.   
“That’s all right,” he said, nodding, “I’m not sure myself.”  
  
Their conversation came to a standstill as it always did when their emotions escalated towards each other. These pauses happened so often nowadays they were almost getting comfortable with them.   
  
“Shall we change the subject?” Sherlock offered, breaking the ice.   
“Yes, please.” Molly said, relieved.   
“You said I looked troubled...” he said.   
“And you still do,” she added.  
“Hmm, yes.” he said, drumming his fingers against his thigh.   
  
Sherlock got up from leaning against the sink and decided to move somewhere a little more comfortable. He gestured for Molly to follow him and she did. The pair settled at their usual spots on the sofa and resumed their conversation.   
  
“How much about Mycroft and Ayumi do you know?” he asked, point blank.   
  
Molly stared at him in surprise. She had not been expecting this topic, certainly not from the likes of Sherlock. Her eyes went wide and she had to pause for a moment to generate a response.   
  
“I know Ayumi had a… _colleague_ ,” said Molly, “It was only until you arrived at my doorstep that I connected the dots and realised who this ‘colleague’ really was.”  
  
Sherlock laughed. It fascinated him that not only was he barely coming to terms with his own emotional revolution, he was standing right at the precipice of his brother’s own.    
  
“Well, in short,” the detective continued, pinching his nose bridge again, “I am troubled by _them_.”  
  
It was Molly’s turn to laugh. First, his dramatic sigh and that terrible frown and the pinching of his nose bridge were all such unexpected reactions to the matter at hand. Secondly, the fact that he was even reacting to the case of his brother and her friend was quite remarkable on its own.   
  
“Are you sure you want to talk about this…about _them_?” Molly asked. She gingerly placed a cool hand atop of his. She could not help it.   
  
Sherlock looked down at her hand over his and smirked. It constantly amazed him how even the slightest touch of her skin made him feel more at ease and more comforted than anything ever could. Every time she reached for him, touching his fingers or even brushing something off his hair, it brought him instantly back to that moment in the taxi after the gala. He could never forget how everything had melted away with just the touch of her fingers against his cheekbone. All human contact felt like an assault to the senses to him. He had a sudden flashback of all his encounters with Evelyn and it made him shudder. Everything felt like an invasion, but Molly’s touch was always welcome respite, and nothing could compare.   
  
“If we could stay like this, I’d talk about it all night,” he said quietly, knowing he had let slip another confession. He smiled quietly to himself as he kept his gaze low, focusing on their hands.   
  
It was Molly’s turn to feel her heart beat harder and faster whilst simultaneously breaking. The choice she had made was getting harder and harder to accept. She thought of her life, her baby and steeled herself to remember why she had made the choice. The happiness she felt now with Sherlock did not mean it was always going to be the case. Molly had managed to find happiness on her own, and she was intent on protecting it. All of this was just a bonus, a luxury. She treasured it. Of course she did, but she also had teach herself to be without it. To be without _him.  
  
“_ Then let’s,” she answered, allowing herself to wrap her fingers around his willing hands. Molly gave herself the excuse that it was just for now, just for tonight. In barely a second, their hands were firmly intertwined. The warmth both so secretly craved crept underneath their skins, comforting them both.   
  
“Sorry, I’d forgotten whom it was we were talking about…” said Sherlock, running his thumb across hers.   
“Your brother, and my friend,” she answered, cheating and letting herself lean against him. She sighed quietly when she felt his head tilt towards hers.    
“Ah, yes. The ice man and the adventurer…” he remarked with a laugh.   
“That’s a good name for her…” Molly said, chuckling in agreement.   
“It’s a long story, you know. You sure you want to hear this?” he asked.   
  
Molly smiled with the side of her face pressed against his sleeve. She kept her fingers wrapped tightly around his hand. She was very glad to hear it was going to be a long story.   
  
“Of course, I do,” she answered finally, “Besides, we’ve got all night.”

* * *

Initially, Molly presumed that Sherlock had simply retreated into his thoughts. He often did that, going silent suddenly as he thought long and hard about the matter at hand. It was only when the hand in hers went slack that she realised, with much amusement, that he had fallen asleep. Sherlock had gone through Mycroft and Ayumi’s entire timeline, dating back to their first encounter, and detailing all their significant cases and collaborations. He also managed to tell her about his meeting with Ayumi that afternoon and why he was now at a bit of a loss. He had expected to be reporting back to Mycroft something to do with government secrets, or information about weapons. Nothing could have prepared him for the fact that this all had to do with the state of his brother’s heart. The last thing Molly had heard him say was frustrated mumblings of “How do you file a report like _that_?”  
  
Taking care not to wake him, Molly took a deep breath and gingerly eased herself away from him and off the sofa. Then, as gently as she could, she coaxed his already toppling torso to lie down. She had managed to sneak a pillow beneath his head just in time. Once his head hit the pillow, his whole body curled itself up automatically as he continued to sleep. Molly reached for his blanket and covered him with it, making sure he was well tucked in. Glancing at the clock, she realised it was barely eleven o’clock, a good time for her to be sleeping too, she thought.   
  
Before she went off to her room, Molly turned to check on the sleeping detective one more time. She recalled fondly the one occasion they had spent sleeping overnight in Mrs Hudson’s study. She was glad those dangerous times were over and that no one was trying to get rid of her anymore. Molly bent down carefully to plant a soft kiss on his cheek.   
  
“For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction…” she whispered, smiling at the recollection.   
  
Thankfully, he barely stirred and remained fast asleep. Molly straightened carefully, placing one hand on the small of her back as she took a deep, calculated breath. When she turned from him to make her way to her bedroom, she was stopped by a sudden but subtle ache in her back and her lower abdomen. It caught her by surprise and before she could even react to the pain, it had ebbed away. Molly stood where she was and patted gently but knowingly at her low and heavy bump. She took another good, deep breath and then slowly walked to her room. Molly had a feeling she would not be sleeping much that night, so she had better get in as much rest as she could.  
  
It was only one or two hours later that Sherlock woke with a start. Something had woken him but he was not quite sure what it was. He glanced around the living room and saw that Molly was no longer with him and had gone back to her room. He stood up, feeling a little shaken, as though something had physically shaken him from his sleep. His confusion was clarified when, just then, the room shook. The tremor lasted only three seconds and it was strong enough that he could hear the glasses rattle, but mild enough that everything still stayed in situ. It did not take Sherlock long to know exactly what was happening. The question was, was this the start of something bigger? Or were these the aftershocks of a quake that had already passed in another part of the country? Before the detective went to find out, he first wanted to find out how Molly was. Before he could even get up from the sofa, however, Molly emerged from her room, hissing quietly to herself with her hand rubbing the base of her spine.   
  
“Oh, did it wake you?” she asked, a little breathlessly.   
“Yes,” he answered her, eyeing her worriedly, “Did it wake you?”  
“No,” she said, hissing sharply again, “My contractions did. In fact, they made sure I didn’t need any waking. I barely slept…”  
  
Sherlock strode right up to her, interrupting her by replacing her hand with his, mimicking the way she had been soothing her back.   
  
“Have you been timing them? The book said that with every—”  
“Yes, Sherlock,” she said, laughing in the middle of a grimace, “I read the same book too, you know…”  
“Have you done the breathing exercises we read about? Or those pilates stretches for labour pains?” he asked a little frantically.   
“I’ve done the breathing, yes,” she said, inhaling sharply from the discomfort, “They’re still quite far apart, Sherlock.”  
“You should have woken me up, Molly,” he said, almost sternly.  
“Well, looks like I didn’t have to,” she said with a quick smile.   
  
Sherlock paced the room with her and together they timed the intervals between each wave of contractions. Molly was coping well, keeping calm and just walking, focusing on the interval timing and if the intensity of the contractions increased. The two of them concluded that this was probably the very early stage of Molly’s labour pains, but as it was still early, they debated between getting her to a hospital, or to just wait at home to see if it was a false alarm.   
  
“I think it’s gone now,” she said, leaning against a wall for support. “The last one felt like a long time ago.”  
“Seventeen minutes, twenty-five seconds ago,” reported the detective.  
“God, I need a glass of water,” she said, straightening from the wall to head towards the kitchen, “I’m pouring with sweat…”  
“I’ll get it—“  
“No, _I_ will. I am not an invalid, Sherlock Holmes. Sit. Down.” she said, pointing firmly to the sofa, “I’ll be fine. I’ll come join you there in a bit.”  
  
Reluctantly, the detective moved himself away from her side and headed to the living room as instructed. He sat at the sofa, unable to relax. Restless, he quickly found her laptop and popped it open to see if there was anything he had left out in his head regarding labour pains. Whilst scrolling rapidly through her library of articles, he could see Molly emerge from the kitchen. A glass half-filled with water was in her hand as she carefully stepped out of the kitchen. There was a frown on her face as she tried to will away the discomfort in various muscles in her body.   
  
“See? I’m fi—”  
  
Her words were cut short when another tremor hit, shaking the room at a slightly greater intensity than before. Molly had to grab onto the back of an armchair to steady herself, dropping her glass in the process. The glass fell with a crash to the floor, its contents spilling everywhere. Just when everything became still again, another steady tremor shook the place, the floor vibrating beneath their feet. This time, the glasses rattled louder, and a few little things had toppled. Some of Molly’s books slid off the bookshelf, a few photo frames fell face down and the Christmas one on the wall had been shifted and was now crooked.   
  
“Molly!” Sherlock exclaimed, getting up when the room was still again and ran to her.   
  
Molly was bent over, still clutching onto the back of the armchair. There was broken glass at her feet, water everywhere, and they were both trembling slightly.   
  
“Are you all right?” he asked, pushing her hair back beneath her ears. “Molly?”  
“Sherlock?” she said quietly, stretching her hand out to hold his.   
“Yes?” he answered, taking her hand straightaway.  
“I think…” she paused to laugh as she stared at the mess beneath her, “My water has broken.”

* * *

Mycroft had just finished reading a difficult set of documents and was beginning to get a slight headache. He put the papers down, took his glasses off and leaned back into his seat. He was just about to shut his eyes for a bit when the telephone on his desk rang, causing him to jump.   
  
“Hello?” he said.  
“Mycroft, it’s me.”   
“Ayu— Agent Marsden. Has something happened?”  
“One of your satellites reported an earthquake in Japan and its aftershocks are spreading to as far as Tokyo.” she said.   
“Has the couple been told? ” Mycroft asked, worried.   
“That’s why I’m calling you,” she said. She was worried too.   
“What’s wrong?”  
“I’d tried calling them, but I think all their lines are down. There is no public transport at this hour and even if there was, the roads are closed as precautionary measures in case the aftershocks increase.” she said urgently. “The tremors are only minor, but I fear they will escalate.”  
“We need to get them somewhere safe,” Mycroft said, “Especially Molly. She’s due anytime now…”  
“Exactly.” said Ayumi, “Which is why I will need to borrow a few things to make that happen.”  
“Name them, and their yours,” he said.  
“I’ll need one of your satellites, and a few helicopters,”   
“Consider it done.”  
“Thank you.”   
  
Mycroft was expecting the phone line to go dead once he had confirmed her request but to his surprise, she continued to speak.   
  
“Oh, and Mycroft?”  
“Yes?” he replied.   
  
There was a long pause as Ayumi’s words failed her. She decided this was not the time to talk about such things, not when her friend was possibly in danger.   
  
“Never mind.” she said, “I’ll update you when I’ve received the equipment.”  
  
The line went dead at last and Mycroft put the handset down. He inhaled sharply and remembered there was an emergency at hand. Glancing at his clock, he saw that it was about five-thirty in the evening, which meant it was about one in the morning where they were.   
  
“It’s going to be a long night,” he said, as he picked the phone up again to make the necessary arrangements.


	32. Chapter 32

It was one of those rare moments where Sherlock was in genuine doubt. He assessed the situation as best as he could - Molly was in the midst of escalating labour pains; there was a huge amount of water on the floor beneath them; she was gripping his hand so hard he was positive the circulation had been cut off. He had clearly heard her state that her water had broken - but had it? It was all happening too fast.   
  
“Please don’t slap me for asking this …“ he prefaced, wincing slightly from her death grip, “But — You’re not joking, are you?”  
  
In between fast and heavy breaths, Molly swallowed hard and managed to shake her head in reply. Sherlock saw how pale she had gone and how her knees seemed to want to give way and no longer felt any doubt. In fact, the doubt had swiftly shifted gears into sheer panic. This was really happening. All the articles they had read, all the discussions they had had, all the tutorials they had pored over — nothing could prepare them, no, _him_ for this.   
  
“Sherlock —” Molly managed, “Get me to the sofa. Now.”  
  
The detective swiftly obeyed, supporting her as best as he could as she made her way to the sofa. They made sure to tread carefully, avoiding the shards of shattered glass. Once they reached the sofa, instead of sitting, Molly reached for his crumpled blanket and threw it down the carpeted living room floor. She then slowly manoeuvred herself, gripping the sofa as she crouched down and knelt on the crudely sprawled blanket. With one hand still in Sherlock’s and the other holding on to the edge of the sofa, Molly shut her eyes and measured her breathing. Releasing Sherlock’s hand, she then took a few deep breaths, gathering enough to speak again.   
  
“Get my phone —” she uttered, her voice raspy and strained.  
  
Sherlock nodded and leapt to her room where he made straight for her bedside table. On it was a single silver mobile phone. It was the one she used in Japan, and also the one that had her obstetrician on speed dial.   
  
“Call…her…” she said, leaning her forehead against the sofa as she shifted to be on all fours, swaying gently to ease the pain in her back.   
  
It was Sherlock’s turn to pace as he found the number and urgently placed the call. Such a sight it was, Sherlock taking anxious, long strides in the tiny flat whilst Molly rocked gently on all fours, focusing solely on her breathing. Her breathing exercise got interrupted when she heard the detective curse silently to himself as he cancelled the call and locked her phone.   
  
“What’s happened?” she gasped.  
“All the lines are dead.” he said, “I don’t need to speak Japanese to deduce the contents of an automated operator’s message.”  
“The earthquake,” Molly muttered, “Breaking my water, disconnecting lines…”  
“I doubt that’s what broke it, Molly. Assisted it, maybe.” said Sherlock, moving to kneel beside her, “You were definitely already on your way.”  
“Maybe. Whatever. Doesn’t matter.” Molly muttered in agitation, before dropping her head against the sofa, stifling a groan.  
“What do we do?” he whispered. Sherlock was at a loss. The sight of Molly in distress was enough to derail him completely.   
“Get the other phone…” said Molly, “The emergency one.”  
  
They had broached this topic before, joking about Mycroft’s overprotective measures. While Sherlock rushed to Molly’s bag as she continued to grit her teeth from the accelerating labour pains, both secretly took back any jabs they had made about Mycroft and his emergency protocols. This was probably going to save their lives - and the new one on its way too.   
  
“See if you can get…” Molly paused to groan from a sharp wave of pain, “… Ayumi. “That phone is… different. Mycroft mentioned…satellites… or something…”  
“A dial tone!” Sherlock exclaimed. It was worth admitting after all - his brother really was formidable.   
  
Never had Sherlock been happier to hear the sound of a call getting through. If only Ayumi would pick up. Time was of the essence here. He could hear the changes in Molly’s breathing, both in intensity and frequency. They were very, very close.   
  
“We’re not getting through…” muttered the detective, frustrated.   
  
It was at this point that Molly could no longer bear it. No amount of jaw clenching or lip biting could stop the torrent of pain that now burned from the centre of her. Her head dropped, her forehead almost touching the blanket on the floor as beads of sweat slid down the wisps of hair that fell in the front of her face.   
  
“No time…” she gasped, “No more time…”  
  
Sherlock chucked the phone aside, rushing to be beside Molly who grimaced and cried out.   
  
“Sherlock —” she practically choked the words out.   
“Yes?” he replied, pushing her wet hair back behind her ears.   
“I think we’re on our own,” she said.   
“I don’t underst —”  
“You’re going to have to help me…” she said, turning slowly to sit down, leaning her back against the front of the sofa.   
“Help you…”  
“And we’d better hope the tremors don’t come back…” she continued.  
  
Sherlock nodded. He understood. They were indeed on their own, but would they manage? Surely this was no different from a case? He needed his adrenalin, his wits, his knowledge and the precision of logic. They would be fine. _He_ would be fine. He had to be, for Molly and the little somersaulting life inside her. Perhaps it was the thought of finally meeting the little boy he had been caring for these past weeks, or the fact that the most important person to him right now was relying on him; Sherlock placed two hands on the sides of Molly’s face and kissed her on the forehead.   
  
“What was that for?” she asked, stunned.  
  
The detective smiled and shook his head.   
  
“It’s nothing,” he said, “Come on, we have work to do.”  
  
Swiftly, the detective got up to rummage for a few things. He found some towels, and most importantly, found some spare surgical gloves that Molly had at home. He brought the towels to the sofa she was leaning against. Molly was still deciding which position was safest for her to deliver her son. She was doing her best to gauge the position of the baby, how far he had descended, as well as how she was physically feeling.   
  
It puzzled Sherlock how hard it was for him to be away from her at a time like this. Every time Sherlock heard her groan, or caught the glimpse of the pain in her eyes, he wanted to rush by her side to simply be with her. The imbalance of sentiment versus logic in his mind was starting to boggle him, but he had to focus. Steeling himself away from Molly and trusting that she was perfectly fine coping on her own, he went to sterilise his hands as best as he could in her kitchen, before snapping on the surgical gloves.   
  
“All right. What now?” he asked.   
  
The two of them were huddled on the floor of Molly’s living room. Molly was seated on Sherlock’s crumpled blanket, with her perspiring back against her sofa. Sherlock was now crouched in front of her, awaiting her instruction. There was just so much theory in his head, but he seemed unable to select what was practically appropriate for this situation. It was as though his ability to deduce the environment had momentarily shut down. All he could see was Molly in distress, and enduring all of this on her own. So much of him wished there was a way for him to physically share the pain with her, but he knew that was sentiment speaking. She was hurting on her own and there was nothing he could do to help that.   
  
Molly had not answered his question, but she had begun to shift herself again. Sherlock moved himself away to afford her more space to move. It was then that he realised she was beginning to undress, peeling off her pyjama bottoms and knickers. If she had not been in so much pain, Molly would have burst out laughing.   
  
“A baby _is_ coming out of me, you know,” she managed to remark, throwing her bottoms off to the side as she grabbed a towel to cover herself.   
  
Sherlock shook his head and helped adjust the towel over her hips and thighs.   
  
“Right, knees up….” Molly said to herself before looking right up at Sherlock, “And now it’s your move.”  
“My move?”  
“Yes.” she answered, pausing to exhale sharply, “I could do it myself…but since you’re here, it’ll be much easier.”  
  
Again, Sherlock had a flashback to a discussion they had had before. It was one of those evenings where Molly had found him going through her collection of pregnancy and childbirth research. Molly could not rest until she understood every process of the birth. She had told Sherlock, in her own words, that _I am not letting anything slip by without my knowledge._ If it meant being able to deliver her own child, she was going to make sure she was ready. Naturally, in his time there, he had ended up acquiring the same knowledge. However, neither of them had expected her precautionary measures to become prophetic in nature.  
  
“Dilation,” Sherlock said quietly.   
“Yes,” she said, wiping her forehead with the edge of another towel, “Please. Hurry.”  
“But, Molly, I—”  
“Sherlock Holmes, we’ve studied this, we know what needs to be done. Just _do it_.”  
“You want _me_ to see how far dilated you are?” he asked, blinking a little rapidly.   
“Are you stalling, Sherlock?” Molly said, exasperated. She had thrown her head back and was trying to concentrate on the ceiling.  
“No, it’s just —” the surgical gloves on his hands seemed ominously heavy, as his hands seemed reluctant to move.   
“We work with bodies all the time, Sherlock,” Molly’s words came out fast and furiously, “This is…the same.”  
“No it isn’t…”  
“Pretend I’m one of your cadavers, all right?” she was almost yelling in desperation now.   
  
At her description, Sherlock’s eyes widened in shock. How could she even make such a comparison? She was no corpse. She was no lifeless stranger on a slab for him to study. The fact that she should even say that appalled him. However, he could not stay appalled for long when another groan escaped Molly despite trying her best to swallow the pain away. Her knuckles had gone pale from how hard she was gripping the edges of the blanket. Her brown eyes were wet and her hair was in absolute disarray.   
  
“It’s - just - anatomy - Sherlock,” she muttered between panting.   
“No, it isn’t. It’s _you_ ,” he protested.  
“Anatomy - just - anatomy,” she argued back.   
“You are not _anatomy_ to me, Molly Hooper,” he rebutted, almost raising his voice, “You are —”  
  
Her head now dropped as she let out another cry, almost as though she was wailing into her chest. He could no longer distinguish if it was tears or sweat that dripped from her face. He could see her knees tremble as the pain continued to swell within her. Sherlock was terrified, but this was no time to be.   
  
“You are the single most important thing to me, Molly Hooper,” he continued. His voice was strong, quiet and resolute. “Which is why, I am going to do this. And we’re going to get this baby safely to us.”  
  
Sherlock shifted into a kneeling position, leaning slightly towards Molly. He gently moved her knees apart and slowly lifted the towel. Shutting his eyes, he did his best to compose himself, organising the pieces of information he had obtained regarding this very procedure and all the processes that were to follow. It seemed the gears in his mind had shifted. The panic and uncertainty of before, all unpleasant effects of sentiment, he had now tucked away. In their place, Sherlock restored his network of information in his head. Everything he had discussed with her, every diagram he had seen, every article he had read, now formed an intricate web of knowledge. He isolated the point they were at now on the web, and calculated the possible steps ahead from here on. There was no turning back anymore. If there ever was a time to be a machine, it was now. Still, before he completely switched modes, he had to tell her one more time.   
  
“You are not mere anatomy, and neither is this baby.” he whispered, opening his eyes and resting his gaze on her. “I don’t have to be your husband, or his father to love either of you.”  
  
Molly tried to respond, but no words came out of her. How did one respond to that in the first place? Sherlock reached to gently stroke her cheek. It was his way of telling her she did not need to answer.   
  
“Talk later.” he said, with a soft smile, “We have work to do.”

* * *

“Come on, come on - the call’s gone through,” Ayumi said, pacing the room in frustration. “Why isn’t anyone picking up?”  
  
Guilt racked the agent, and best friend of Molly, when she thought back on the fact that she had missed their call. She had heard the phone ring but had been away talking to her personnel. She was internally kicking herself for not having had the phone with her all the time. Now, she was breaking into a sweat with the phone glued to her ear, trying to get through to Molly’s emergency phone.   
  
“Good news, Ma’am,” said one of her staff members who had come running to her office.   
“What is it?”  
“We’ve compiled data from all our best geological sources, and they’re safe.”  
“How safe?” she asked urgently.  
“They aren’t at the epicenter, which immediately eliminates a great amount of threat.”  he explained.  
“But the aftershocks?” Ayumi pressed, worried.  
“They shouldn’t be experiencing anymore aftershocks. The seismic activity at the epicentre seems to have ceased, and the subsequent waves are small and fading fast.”  
“Oh, excellent,” Ayumi said, exhaling in relief. “You’re sure about the epicentre? And that they’re a safe distance from it?”  
“Affirmative, Ma’am.”  
“Good. Is the transport ready?” she asked, redialling Molly’s emergency phone for the _n_ th time.  
“Ready at your command.”  
“Thank you.”  
  
Ayumi sighed quietly and returned to her desk as the young officer dashed out. No one seemed to be picking up still, so she snapped the phone shut in frustration. All she could think of was Molly and the baby. She was so far into her pregnancy that it literally was any day now. What if the quake had done something to her? Ayumi was quite going to implode from worry. She needed to get to them soon, but there were things to settle first, bothersome details like air traffic and permits and all that. Thankfully, having involved Mycroft, things were moving along much faster than they normally would have.   
  
She tried again, picking her phone up and dialling for Molly’s emergency number. The dial tone had never sounded more agitating, but Ayumi was starting to calm down a little. Knowing that the quake was most likely over and that the aftershocks were ebbing sent a huge wave of relief over her. At least they were out of danger. She took a moment and sat down for the first time in hours. In a moment, she would be out of this building, on a helicopter to Molly’s apartment, but first, she needed to breathe.   
  
“Please be all right,” she murmured to herself, “Please be all right.”

* * *

Molly and Sherlock had often worked together, but never before in such a strange capacity. It was a good thing they had had all those discussions before and that medical terminology was but vernacular to them. Molly would do her best to articulate what she was feeling, what she wanted him to do, or how she wanted to move and he would support all her actions. Sherlock was no passive bystander though. He actively monitored her, as well as the baby, to the best of his ability and with what basic paraphernalia they had around. The stethoscope had proven the most useful, granting both Sherlock and Molly the best access to the health of the baby and the stage of delivery he was at. At one point, they were even sharing the stethoscope in their bid to maintain that the baby’s heartbeat was nice and strong, and in order to be doubly correct about the baby’s position in her womb.  
  
As the pain eventually got the best of her, Molly still did her best to stay alert, focusing on providing as much information as she could to Sherlock. In return, he articulated everything that he was seeing, hearing or doing, giving her as much peace of mind as possible. It seemed that all their time spent together in laboratories and morgues had culminated to this point - the ultimate act of teamwork in what was possibly the greatest act of giving life. Neither of them was squeamish, and they certainly were not afraid of blood or the human body. This was life, staring them in the face, and they were well equipped for it.   
  
What they had not been equipped for, however, had been the emotional impact of it all. In particular, the very moment the baby arrived. When his head first emerged and Sherlock’s hands were the first ones to reach for it, the detective could scarcely contain himself.   
  
“Molly…he’s _here…_ ” he whispered excitedly, amidst her cries from pushing.   
  
As he continued to coax her to push and to breathe according to how the birth was progressing, Sherlock concentrated hard on the life they were slowly bringing into the world.   
  
“Come on, young man,” he continued, “Your mummy’s spent.”  
“What?!” Molly cried out, thinking he was talking to her.  
“I’m talking to your son,” answered Sherlock calmly, “We’re nearly there, Molly. Short, quick breaths now!”  
“Birthday candles?” she asked, throwing her head back as she grimaced.  
“Yes, just like we practiced. Blowing out birthday candles. Short and quick.”  
  
At his instruction, Molly breathed accordingly. Sherlock paced her breathing to ensure maximum push strength but minimum strain on her part. He did not want to exhaust her to the point of not being able to push. Managing her energy levels was a delicate but important matter. When it came to the final one, Sherlock had the baby’s head and shoulders well in his grip as he did his best to rally the last push from Molly.   
  
“You’re the strongest person I know, Molly,” said Sherlock resolutely, his sleeves rolled up, ready to receive her son. “Just one good, firm push. With all you’ve got.”   
  
There was no holding back now. Molly let out one final, fierce cry as the final tide of pain washed over her. Together with her cry, came the first cry of the little boy, safely cradled in the arms of the man she would always love. Nothing could have prepared her for a sight like that. Tears fell from her eyes as they mingled with beads of perspiration, but the smile on her face outshone everything in the room. When her breathing calmed a little and the rest of the room swam back into view, she saw that Sherlock’s eyes were shining. He was gazing down at her son, whom he had wrapped in a towel, and he was crying. She heard no sobs and his chest did not rise and fall, but the glisten in his eyes gave the detective away. Sherlock was in tears.   
  
“Sherlock?” she called out, still trying to catch her breath.  
“Oh. Sorry.” he answered. He sniffed once, then quickly handed her the baby, placing him gently against her chest.   
  
There probably are no words to describe the feeling of meeting one’s baby for the first time. Molly certainly did not have them. She was astounded at how _perfect_ this little boy seemed to her. He felt perfect in her arms, he looked perfect in her eyes, and his cries sounded like music.   
  
“I need to cut the cord.” said Sherlock, interrupting her as she admired her baby.  
  
Using a pair of scissors he had boiled to sterilise earlier, Sherlock deftly snipped off the cord. He then did a quick check to make sure the baby was okay. His stethoscope was out, and already he was checking to see if the lungs were clear of fluid and that the heartbeat was good.   
  
“How are you feeling?” Sherlock asked Molly, who was staring down at her child.  
“Fine. Just fine.” she answered, wistfully distracted by the noises her son was making, “Is he okay?”  
“He seems in very good shape,” answered Sherlock with a smile, “You’ve taken such good care of him.”  
  
Sherlock moved to sit beside her and pushed a few damp wisps of hair from her forehead. He then turned to kiss her gently on her temple, smiling against her skin as he did so. Molly shut her eyes and leaned in gently towards his kiss. There was a wave of relief that was washing over her, temporarily suspending the discomfort and fatigue her body was in.   
  
“You’re marvellous, you know that, Molly?” whispered the detective, unable to resist smiling down at her.   
  
Molly could only smile in response. Her baby was safely in her arms and that was all that really mattered to her. However, it did bring her an additional sense of peace to know that Sherlock had been with her the whole way.   
  
“You should give obstetrics a go,” she said at last, igniting a soft chuckle from the detective. They both laughed gently, their heads lightly touching as Molly rested against Sherlock.   
“Maybe,” he answered. “When the cases get too boring.”   
  
The both of them laughed as the anxiety and adrenalin of the past hours slowly began melting away. However, they soon realised they could not afford to simply sit there and reminisce. Sherlock made sure to keep his mental clockwork going and kept all the extra sentiment at bay - at least for a little while more. This was not completely over yet, for Molly still had a bit more pushing to do. Besides, the real work had only just begun. The little one desperately needed to be cleaned, and possibly needed a feed too. It was Sherlock who got up first and reminded Molly that they still had a lot of work to do.   
  
Suddenly, they heard a strange vibrating noise coming from a distance. The wind also seemed to have picked up outside. Both Sherlock and Molly looked back at each other in worry. Was another tremor headed their way? Immediately, both minds began to spin, trying to find the best possible way to keep everyone safe should another tremor strike. Molly held her newborn son tightly whilst Sherlock immediately began trying the emergency phone once more. The noise seemed to be getting louder, and the wind outside, stronger, but nothing seemed to be moving. The ground remained perfectly still. It was only then, with audible sighs of relief from them both, that they realised what those strange sounds were.   
  
“Mycroft,” said the both of them as relief swept across them.   
  
The strange noises had been the whirring of helicopters and before they knew it, the door to Molly’s apartment had burst open with Ayumi leading her team of special officers into the apartment.   
  
“Molly!” Ayumi cried out, rushing to her friend’s side.   
“Ayumi,” Molly replied, beaming up at her.  
“He’s here!” Ayumi exclaimed with the happiest grin on her face.   
  
Ayumi threw her arms excitedly around her friend’s neck and kissed her on the cheek. After which, she quickly beckoned for the obstetrician in her team to come to where Molly was. A uniformed woman stepped forward with her medical supplies in hand and began setting up to attend to Molly.  
  
“I am so proud of you, Molly,” Ayumi continued, “Look at him, he’s _gorgeous_.”  
“Isn’t he?” said Molly, gazing down affectionately at her son.   
“How are you feeling? Are you okay?”  
“I’m doing perfectly fine,” Molly answered, “Sherlock took excellent care of me.”  
  
At the mention of his name, Ayumi turned to look up at the detective who now stood aside, watching the two friends. He gave her a nod and a gentle smile. Ayumi nodded in return. As always, Mycroft had made the perfect decision getting his brother to come up to Japan. Had he not done so, who knew how differently the morning could have turned out. Sherlock then turned his attention to the doctor who was assembling her medical equipment and had an impatient frown on his face.  
  
“Excuse me,” said Sherlock, coming over, “But I can take care of this.”   
“What?” Ayumi asked, facing the detective.  
“Molly isn’t quite finished. There’s still the afterbirth and I can assist with that.”  
“I have a well-trained obstetrician right here, Sherlock,” said Ayumi, amused, “She can take over from here.”  
“No, she cannot.” remarked the detective, “If I could assist in the delivery of a baby, a placenta should be quite manageable…”  
“Sherlock,” Molly interrupted gently.   
  
The detective stopped his spiel and turned to face Molly.   
  
“Here, stretch out your arms,” she said, and he immediately obliged. Carefully, she passed her newborn’s tiny frame to him, ensuring the baby rested securely in his arms. A small smile instantly appeared once he had the baby with him again.   
  
“Perhaps you could get them to check him, and to clean him up?” she asked, offering the detective a new task. Molly knew he was only being concerned (and also being a perfectionist) when he mentioned seeing to the afterbirth. However, she was glad they had proper medical expertise with them now and wanted him to have a bit of a break too. Sherlock nodded, gazing lovingly at the child in his arms. Without a single protest, the detective carefully stood up and went over to the medical staff on standby. Molly watched, amused, as he gave them specific instructions to check the baby thoroughly (and to report back to him). He then stood by them the entire time, watching as they measured and weighed the baby and also cleaned him properly.   
  
“Did you sustain any injuries when the tremors struck?” asked Ayumi, turning her attention back to Molly.  
“Thankfully, no,” Molly answered.  
“Ma’am, we’re ready to begin.” said the obstetrician.   
“Take good care of her,” Ayumi said, giving Molly’s hand a quick squeeze before stepping aside. 

* * *

Despite Molly’s protests, everyone (including Sherlock) had agreed that they should be taken somewhere safe where they would have round-the-clock medical attention, as well as ample protection from more unexpected natural disasters. They had been brought to Ayumi’s main headquarters, so that she could personally see to their recovery and protection. Within twenty-four hours of the birth of Molly’s son, the detective, the pathologist and her newborn were safely whisked away to their new accommodation. It took a while to settle everyone. Everyone was fussing about the baby of course. When Ayumi and her team finally left them to their own devices, Molly heaved a sigh of relief and sank into an armchair, her baby cooing and wriggling about in her arms.   
  
“Can I get you anything?” asked Sherlock, who finally managed to hang up his coat now that all their ‘visitors’ had left.   
“No, no,” Molly answered. “Come and sit with me.”  
  
The detective smiled and walked over to the armchair beside her. He sank gratefully into it too, for he was now starting to feel the fatigue from their action-filled morning. He leaned across his armrest to peer at the little head that peeked out from its blanket. Molly smiled when she saw the fascinated look in Sherlock’s eyes as he studied the baby.   
  
“I’m really glad you’re here, Sherlock,” said Molly at last.   
  
At her words, Sherlock looked up from the baby and saw the gentle smile on Molly’s face. The sentiment that he had withheld from before was now seeping back into his bloodstream. How his emotions coursed through him; he wanted to pick the baby up, twirl him in the air and kiss his ruddy little face. How his heart beat for the woman who sat beside him; he wanted to reach for her, take in the scent of her hair, kiss her glorious skin and tell her he never wanted to be separate from her anymore. For a moment, Sherlock let himself indulge in his selfishness, pushing aside the fact that she _had_ indeed chosen to be separate from him. He let himself imagine these two lives before him being a part of his life, and that he would never have to let them go.   
  
“Anything to deduce about my baby?” asked Molly, snapping Sherlock out of his thoughts.  
“Well, it’s in plain sight, isn’t it?” said the detective as he stretched out his fingers to touch the baby’s tiny ones.   
“What is?”    
“His perfection,” answered the detective, trying to contain the joy he felt when the little fingers clung to his index finger.   
  
Molly laughed gently and quietly took in the lovely view of her son holding on tight to Sherlock. What a view it was, and what a torrent of feelings it gave her.   
  
“Can I tell you a secret?” she said, looking down at their intertwined fingers.  
“Mmhmm.” answered the detective, his eyes not once leaving the baby’s.   
“I was going to name him after you,” Molly said.   
  
Sherlock whipped his head up to face her. He raised a quizzical eyebrow, but only to break into an embarrassed half-smirk. Molly laughed at his expression, but continued explain.   
  
“I didn’t think I was ever going to see you again,” she said, “And I wasn’t planning to.”  
  
Suddenly, Molly shifted in her seat, sat up, and very carefully passed her son to Sherlock. He received the baby gladly and cradled him expertly in the crook of his arm.   
  
“But I still wanted to remember you, you know?” she continued, “You will always be important to me. And after Brian left, I thought, yes, I’m definitely naming him after you. Since he wasn’t going to have a father, what did it matter that I name my son after a man who means so much to me? What’s more, the both of you would have had the same initials.”  
“Sherlock Hooper?” the detective asked, amused.   
“It sounds perfect to me,” Molly answered with a laugh.  
“It’s a great honour, Molly,” Sherlock replied, looking up from the baby. “But you don’t have to now. I’m here, aren’t I?”  
“Yes, you are,” said Molly, her eyes shining with happiness, “Which is why _you_ ’ _re_ going to name him.”  
“What? Why?” asked Sherlock in surprise.   
“You delivered him, Sherlock—”  
“No, _you_ did. He came out of _you_ …”  
“That’s not what I mean, Sherlock,” chuckled Molly, “You did help bring him into this world, you know.”  
  
The detective tried hard to suppress the pride and joy he felt, biting down on a growing grin. It still astounded him how much he felt for this baby. Even before he could hold the boy in his arms, he had loved him. As a little swimming, somersaulting heartbeat in Molly’s womb, Sherlock had loved him. Needless to say, he felt the same, if not more, for the baby’s mother. The one who had become more than necessary, no longer some accessory to the success of his work.   
  
“I _would_ like us to share initials,” said the detective at last. “Seems like it would be nice, somehow.”  
“Go ahead,” said Molly, “His name is yours to decide.”  
“Why would you do this, Molly?” asked Sherlock.   
“Because I don’t need to name him ‘Sherlock’ to remember you now. Everything about his existence here and now, has _you_ written all over it.”  
“But he is your son—”  
“I consider him yours too…” Molly interrupted.   
  
The detective was stumped. His eyes blinked rapidly as he processed the information.   
  
“You took such good care of him, Sherlock,” Molly whispered, reaching out to touch his arm, “Such good care of _us_.”  
  
There was still no response from the detective. Molly smiled, knowing to give him time to absorb the weight of her words. They might never be together, but she would always consider this boy his. The love the detective had for her son was palpable and she had certainly taken it to heart.   
  
“So? What will it be?” she asked, running her thumb over his fingers.   
“Are you sure about this?” he whispered.   
  
Nodding, Molly leaned forward to kiss him lightly on the cheek. Even if she would never see him again, she would always have her son to remember him by. Having Sherlock name him was but a natural decision. The detective was quiet, processing the gentleness of her kiss and the warmth of the little life in his arms. It surprised him, but he had found a name.   
  
“Scott.” he murmured at last. “Scott. And he still gets to share my initials.”  
“Scott Hooper,” said Molly, beaming, “I absolutely love it.”  
“I took a leaf out of your book,” explained the detective.  
“How do you mean?”  
“Well, you wanted to name him after me…so I chose a middle name instead.”  
“I didn’t know you had a middle name!” Molly exclaimed with a grin.  
“Middle _names_ ,” he corrected, with a little smirk.   
“Fancy telling me the rest?” she teased.  
“Only if you have more babies,” he teased in return.   
  
The two of them laughed, grateful to be feeling proper delight in a long time. Their laughter was interrupted by the soft, agitated cry of a hungry baby. Sherlock smiled, and swiftly handed the baby to his mother. He then stood up and moved to stand in front of Molly, bending down to kiss the baby gently on the forehead.   
  
“I’ll leave you and Scott,” he said, unable to stop the half-smile on his face upon saying the baby’s name. “It’s time I got us some food too. The usual?”  
“Yes, please.” Molly replied gratefully.   
“See you later, Molly,” he said, heading towards the coat rack.   
“See you later, Sherlock,” she answered, as she readied herself to feed her son, the newly named Scott Hooper.


	33. Chapter 33

It was odd that the feelings of joy and delight had managed to linger. It had been about a week or so and none of those feelings seemed to have faded away. Harbouring those sentiments in the first place had been unusual enough. So for them to have remained this steadfast, quite boggled the detective. Sherlock found himself en route on another dinner run for Molly and himself. All throughout the journey, where he could really be alone, he could not help but smile. In these private moments he would think of the little boy, and the sight of Molly with him. Sherlock could hardly wait to return home to that sight.   
  
When he stepped out of the car, he looked at the brightly-lit convenience store in front of him, _konbini_ , as they were called and wondered if their takeaway meals were sufficient for a nursing mother. However, he knew that the one thing Molly craved after another busy day with the baby was something comforting and familiar. The sliding doors opened for him as a little jingle played, signalling the entrance of a customer. Someone from the back of the shop greeted him. Sherlock knew to nod in return, whether he could see who had greeted him or not.   
  
The layout of a _konbini_ was not difficult to figure out. Sherlock knew exactly where to head towards, where there would be shelves of Molly’s favourite microwaveable comforts. Having spotted the set she liked best, he was just about to reach for it when he heard a slow tapping sound coming towards him. It was not an unfamiliar sound. Carefully, Sherlock placed the tray of food back on the shelf and turned to greet the calm, quiet figure that was his brother, Mycroft. The taller and wiser of the Holmes brothers stopped in his tracks when Sherlock spotted him, and rested both hands on the crook of his umbrella.  
  
“How are you?” Mycroft asked, point blank, inciting a raised eyebrow from his younger brother.   
“Fine,” answered Sherlock, “Am I supposed to ask you in return?”  
“I had heard about the quake, and that you and Molly were unreachable,” continued Mycroft, ignoring Sherlock’s remark.   
“Then you would also have heard that we were found and that Molly and the baby are fine,” said Sherlock.   
“Only vaguely,” Mycroft remarked, “Which is why I’ve come to see for myself.”  
  
That their situation, which Mycroft had been so closely following, was vague to Mycroft was unusual. Sherlock eyed his brother quizzically, wondering what the missing link was. It did not take long for the detective to realise what was different this time. It caused him to smirk, irritating his brother.   
  
“What?” asked Mycroft, exhaling sharply.   
“Ayumi didn’t tell you,” Sherlock said, keeping his eye on his brother.   
“ _Agent Marsden_ was busy with handling Molly’s and your situation, I had to make do with secondary reports,” Mycroft answered, a little stiffly.   
“Ayumi didn’t tell you,” Sherlock repeated, turning his attention to the shelves of food, “That’s that.”  
“That is as may be, but I _am_ here on _your_ business, you know…”  
“ _My_ business?” asked Sherlock, whipping his head round to face his brother.   
  
Mycroft let out an audible sigh at his brother’s hostility.   
  
“Never mind,” said Mycroft quietly, almost muttering, “What are your plans after this?”  
“After what?” asked Sherlock, returning to casually browse the shelves of food for his own dinner.   
“Do you know why I sent you here?” Mycroft asked, taking one step towards his brother.   
“An excuse to give Ayumi a call?” Sherlock replied, smirking to himself.  
  
Without missing a beat, Mycroft smiled and answered his brother.   
  
“I never need an excuse to call her.”   
“Perhaps—”  
“ _You_ , on the other hand,” interrupted Mycroft, “need perfect excuses before you’d even set one stubborn foot out to be with someone you cared about.”  
“So what you’re saying is that you’d planned all of this?” Sherlock said, scoffing, “You engineered Molly’s pregnancy, her abandonment by that f—…”  
“I didn’t have to engineer it,” his brother interjected, “I merely relayed information where necessary.”  
“And why would you do that?” asked Sherlock sternly.   
“Because Molly is necessary.”  
“Necessary?” scoffed the detective, “If you’re trying to say I’m still _using_ her—”   
“You need her more than you realise, is what I am trying to say,” interrupted Mycroft, “And it just so happened that she needed you too. I saw that it fit, so I mobilised everyone.”  
  
Sherlock shook his head and returned his attention to the trays of food. A large part of him knew he had much to be grateful to his brother for, but it irked him senseless that Mycroft still meddled with his life. What was worse, his brother’s meddling was always right.   
  
“Well, now you know you’re right…” Sherlock admitted, half-heartedly.   
“Am I?” pushed Mycroft, trying to hide a smirk.   
“If you’re looking for a _thank you_ ,” Sherlock said, taking his pick of food, “Well, you know you’re not getting one.”  
  
Mycroft laughed. If only his little brother knew that his safety and welfare were far more important to Mycroft than all the _thank you_ s and apologies in the world.   
  
“What will you do now that this is over?” asked Mycroft.   
“Nothing is _over_ , Mycroft,” answered Sherlock sharply.   
“You know you’ll have to leave soon, don’t you?”  
“Yes,” said Sherlock quietly.   
“Can you?”  
“I will have to, won’t I?”   
“Should I speak to her—”  
“Mycroft, she had made her decision a long time ago.” Sherlock said with a laugh, “I’m not supposed to even be standing here.”  
“Yet here you are,”  
“By _your_ intervention. Had it been her way…she would have been by herself, with Ayumi, and Scott…”  
  
There was a small smile that appeared on Mycroft’s face.   
  
“Lovely choice for a name,” Mycroft remarked.   
“Yes,” answered Sherlock with a quick smile, “She let me name him.”  
“Did she?” Mycroft replied, surprised, “Well, well…”  
“It doesn’t mean anything, Mycroft,” Sherlock said, almost rolling his eyes at his brother.   
“It means I _can_ speak to her…”  
“I told you, she’s made up her mind…”  
“I can still try to change it—”  
“You couldn’t stop her from leaving, what makes you think you can convince her to stay with me?” Sherlock interrupted, his voice hard.   
  
There was no answer from Mycroft, and Sherlock had no words left. His older brother had pried his greatest frustration out of him, leaving him empty. Mycroft seemed to open his mouth to speak, but then decided against it. He gave Sherlock a small nod, then turned on his feet and walked slowly away. The detective’s jaw had almost gone numb from how hard he had been clenching it. With a sharp exhale, he made sure he got Molly’s food and haphazardly grabbed a tray for himself. He hopped back into the car and was sped back to Ayumi’s headquarters where they presently resided.   
  
His brother’s questions had forced him to think about things he did not want to think about. How did one think about _emotions_? Surely there was some kind of contradiction there. What he felt could not be contemplated, which was why he chose to ignore it. As it had now been brought to the forefront, it seemed harder to ignore. He had no choice, however, so when he walked up to the door of his, Molly’s and the baby’s current hideout, he steeled himself to put on his best smile and make the best of what little time he had left with them.  
  
“Welcome back,” greeted Molly with a lovely smile on her face.   
  
There was a lurch in Sherlock’s chest; from the way her smile hooked his heart, and from the way it punctured when he realised how soon he was going to have to depart from all this, from _her_. He noticed that she had had a shower and that Scott was peacefully asleep in his day cot that stood in the middle of their living area.   
  
“Everything all right?” he asked, setting the food down and getting it ready to be heated.   
“We had a tumultuous feed, lots of protests and little vomits here and there,” she reported, “Which is why I’m glad I managed to get a shower.”  
“Sorry I wasn’t there to help,” said Sherlock, noticing the small heap of milk-stained muslin in a basket by Molly’s armchair.   
“What are you talking about?” she said with a laugh, “You got us dinner,”  
“Indeed, I have,” he said, with a small smile.  
  
It was something both of them had quietly enjoyed – their private routines. Molly had gone to fetch cups and poured them both drinks, whilst Sherlock went to heat up their food. They returned to the table, happy to share a simple, familiar meal and to bask in each other’s silence. Sherlock gave the same judging glances when Molly’s chopstick skills failed her a few times. She would return his look with a steely glare of her own, only for both of them to burst into quiet chuckles, as was always the conclusion to their ‘chopstick wars’. As they finished their dinner, Sherlock noticed straightaway how exhausted Molly had become. She needed sleep, lots of it, in fact. Without hesitation, he swept up their eating and drinking utensils, chucked them in the sink and insisted she went straight to bed.   
  
“But we always do the dishes together,” she said, not realising how much she was yawning. “And I quite enjoy that…”  
“Yes,” he said, warmed at the thought that she enjoyed these little routines together, “But I can _actually_ see you turning to jelly, Molly,”  
“Am I really?” she said, rubbing the back of her neck.   
“You are going to put your feet up and _sleep_ , whilst I get on with these dishes and do something about that pile over there,” said Sherlock firmly.   
“I’m fine, I can settle the laundry then, since you’re doing the dish—”  
“Molly,” Sherlock cut in, cupping her face in his hands, “Go to bed.”  
  
The skin of his palms was cool and when it touched her face, it startled her a little, momentarily stopping her from slipping away into fatigue. Sherlock’s gaze on her was firm, not allowing her any way of getting out of going to sleep. The way he looked at her was absolutely uncompromising. His eyes locked onto hers and refused to let her have a word in edgewise. Instead of arguing with him, Molly found herself reaching up to place her hand over his, letting her fingers rest between his.   
  
“I’ll miss you, Sherlock,” she whispered, shutting her eyes and leaning her face into his palm. The moment she had said it, she knew she should not have.  
  
There was a small wave of electricity that ran through his body at her words. His clear eyes widened slightly as his mind, once again, jammed. His heart felt like it beat a little too hard, almost to the point of hurting him.   
  
“Don’t say that,” he answered blankly. There was a sliver of ice in his tone, as was his only defence from the tidal wave in his chest.  
“That’s good...” Molly said, somewhat relieved as she removed her hand from his and stepped away. “You’re sounding a little bit more like you now.”  
  
They stared at each other, suddenly feeling the familiar estrangement from when they had parted at the morgue.   
  
“Go to bed,” he said, turning abruptly to face the sink.   
  
Molly nodded, smiling ever so slightly but towards Sherlock’s already turned back. Solemnly, she made for her bedroom, but not without stopping to peek at her sleeping baby.   
  
“I’ll watch him, don’t you worry. Please get some rest,” said Sherlock, sensing that she had detoured to the cot.   
“Thank you, Sherlock.”   
  
He could hear the door to her bedroom shut gently and when it did, he let out a sharp breath he did not know he had been holding. Within minutes, he had cleared up all the dinner things and moved swiftly on to sorting out the dirty laundry. When he was finally done, he made sure to wash his hands properly before heading over to the cot. Scott had been expertly swathed and was still very much asleep. The sight alone of this little boy left the detective feeling incredibly whole. It was as though his entire life had been in crude fragments before this moment, the moment Scott Hooper had come into this world.   
  
“You’re not even mine,” he whispered, smiling pensively at the snoozing baby.   
  
Sherlock sat by the cot and gently stroked the baby’s ruddy cheek. He risked waking the baby up, but he could not resist. If he had his way, the baby would be asleep in his arms and not in this contraption of wooden panels and screws. Everything about the child was fascinating; the soft sounds of his little breaths, the subtle rise and fall of his chest and the little twitches in his eyelids.   
  
“I can’t even say goodbye to you,” he continued, his voice hushed as he peered closer into the cot, “How am I ever going to say goodbye to your mummy?”  
  
There was a great temptation to call his brother. Mycroft, ultimately, was nothing short of a magician. Sherlock had seen leaders from powerful countries secretly pleading for Mycroft’s miraculous interventions to save their people or their land or their resources. On the front pages of newspapers, these countries were indomitable, unshakeable. Yet, behind closed doors, they were rendered beggars in the presence of Mycroft. Such was the power he wielded. Mycroft could save or destroy whole countries, and yet, Molly Hooper was no match for him. None of his magic seemed to work with her and it frustrated Sherlock terribly.   
  
The baby stirred suddenly. His eyes were still closed but a small frown appeared, as though sensing Sherlock’s troubles. It amused the detective greatly.   
  
“What are you worried about, young man?” he asked.  
  
Scott answered as his eyelids fluttered open. There came a yawn, a little coo and then the beginnings of a soft cry. Automatically, the detective swooped down and picked the baby up, holding the little body against his chest with one hand expertly supporting the delicate neck and the other hand under the baby’s bottom.   
  
“There, there…” he whispered. “You can’t possibly be hungry. So it’s one of two things then…”   
  
Before Sherlock could take Scott to the changing table, the baby answered the question for Sherlock by letting out a few hearty burps. They made the detective laugh. Sherlock kissed the baby’s soft little cheek and simply held him as he walked about the living room. Scott had stopped crying by then and had in fact, gone back to sleep. Sherlock, however, was too absorbed in having quiet little conversations with the baby that he had not realised Scott had been lulled back to sleep. On and on Sherlock spoke to Scott, almost confiding in him, running his inner monologue externally between himself and the little one on his shoulder.   
  
“And that is why,” he said, returning to stand in front of the cot, “I know I have to leave.”  
  
Having realised only then that Scott had fallen asleep, Sherlock slowly and carefully lowered the baby back into the cot. He double-checked the baby’s swathing and was pleased to see it was all still in tact. He bent to kiss Scott once more, this time on the forehead.   
  
“It’s a good thing, I suppose, that I’m not her husband…or your father…” said Sherlock quietly as he stroked the few soft hairs on the baby’s head, “Because I would be rubbish, wouldn’t I? I know it, your mummy knows it. Of course, I have to go.”  
  
Sherlock straightened from where he had been bending over the cot and smoothed his shirt. He did his best to shake off whatever melancholy he had allowed to creep in. Turning away from the cot, Sherlock spied the door and wondered if it would all be easier if he simply walked out now and got on a plane back to London.  
  
“Sentiment,” he whispered, as his mind scoffed at his heart. When he turned back to look at the baby, there was a sharp sting in his chest, like a sharp comeback from his heart to his mind. The warring continued between his heart and his head as he absentmindedly went about retrieving the clean laundry. When that was done, he just found himself pacing the room, glancing every so often at Scott to check on him. The collision of thought and emotion was too much for him to bear and he absolutely could not sit still. Had he been back in London, he would have gone looking for a case, just to silence one side of the bickering at least. Here, however, he was far removed from all the cases that continued to flood his inbox. Again, he considered contacting his brother, this time, to see if there were any international emergencies that needed sorting. Somehow, he resisted. His feet would not stop moving and yet, refused to take him out of the apartment.   
  
Sherlock had not realised it but he had begun ironing, obsessively trying to flatten the natural creases in the muslin of Scott’s milk cloths. He had experimented with wetting the cloth, chilling the cloth, spraying cold water on it, warm water, tap water… all to see which one allowed him to take the creases out best, or at least the fastest. He was almost completely bent over the tiny ironing board when he was suddenly interrupted by the sound of Molly calling his name.   
  
“Sherlock?” she called again.  
  
His head snapped up from the ironing, taken aback to realise she was standing right in front of him.   
  
“Molly,” he answered, freezing for no apparent reason.   
  
She chuckled as she reached for the switch, turning off the power for the iron.   
  
“You’re going to burn that,” she remarked, pointing to the iron in his hand that remained pressed over the same area of cloth.   
“Oh. Sorry,” he said, flustered, “I—”  
“I’ve turned it off, Sherlock, relax,” she interrupted, smiling gently at him.   
“Thank you,” he muttered, finally releasing his grasp on the handle of the iron.   
“It looks like you’re the one that needs to sleep now,” Molly said with a laugh.   
“Perhaps,” he said, allowing a small smile.   
  
They stood around awkwardly, with the ironing board between them. By some synchrony, they both turned to glance over at the cot. When they returned to face each other, they shared a smile, lowering their heads but with their private smiles remaining.   
  
“About earlier,” said Molly quietly, “I’m sorry I said…that.”  
“Nothing to be sorry about,” said the detective, placing both hands in his trouser pockets.   
“And I shouldn’t say this, but…”  
“Hmm?”  
“I meant it.”   
“Mm. Right.”  
“Sorry…”  
“No, it’s fine.”  
  
He tried to catch her gaze that had lowered. Her tone had been so crestfallen he could not help but want to lift her spirits.   
  
“It really is fine,” he said, mustering a smile, “It’s a bit like what I used to do to you, really.”  
“How do you mean?” she asked, raising her head at last.   
“Well, it’s all manipulation of sorts, isn’t it?” he remarked, his smile now solemn.  
“Manipulation?”   
  
Sherlock took a deep breath. Perhaps this _was_ a kind of cosmic retribution for the way he had used to be with her. The similarity was so uncanny it almost made him want to laugh about it.   
  
“I’d pull you in, didn’t care how, get what I want, then push you away until the next case,” he explained, his heart heavy at the recollection, “You remember that, surely…”  
“I do,” she nodded, “Believe me I do.”  
“So now, you’re sort of doing the same, in the opposite direction.” he continued. “You keep me out, only letting me in where possible, or where safe, before pushing me back out again.”  
“How very true,” she remarked, smiling blankly.   
“So, I manipulated you…” Sherlock paused to take a deep breath, “And now _you_ manipulate you.”  
  
Like an unexpected breeze, a moment of silence swept over them. Molly smiled bitterly, frowning as she stared pointlessly at the top of the iron. Sherlock was very still, looking away and biting on the insides of his mouth, as though to stop himself from talking, or crying.   
  
“I forget how good you are at reading people,” said Molly at last. She looked up at him, her eyes glistening ever so slightly as she tried her best to smile.   
“Occupational hazard,” he said, before clearing his throat. He too, did his best to smile, but it never reached his eyes.   
“It’s for the best,” she said quietly, “I’m not changing my mind—”   
“I’m not the only one who’s good at reading people, Molly…” interrupted the detective.   
“Mycroft’s pretty decent—” Molly remarked jokingly.  
“I am referring to you,” he cut in again, eyeing her intently, “And I _know_ you’re good because you can read _me._ ”  
“I told you,” she said with a brooding smile, “I learnt how to…from you.”  
“So you agree, you _can_ read me?” he asked.   
“I’m rather proud of the present I got you,” she answered, smiling.   
“There, case in point,” he remarked, smiling back.   
“But that doesn’t matter, Sherlock…” she said, folding her arms.   
“You don’t understand,” he interjected, “It matters tremendously.”  
“Why?”   
  
Again, a pause came between them as Sherlock tried to put his words together. Molly kept her eyes on Sherlock as she burned with curiosity, waiting for him to continue.   
  
“Because if you can read me, Molly, if you really, really _read_ me…” he explained, his voice softening.  
“Yes?” she asked, trying to calm the beating in her chest.   
“You would reconsider,” he said simply.   
  
He looked up at her, his eyes awash with resignation. Molly was stunned to see such death in his eyes. They were so hollow, as though all their light had gone out.   
  
“Reconsider,” he repeated, his voice even softer.   
  
His plea was accompanied by a quick smile that led to him quickly looking away. It seemed impossible to face her now. There was zero chance that she would consider his plea to reconsider, but he had said it, and now he had nothing left to say.   
  
“Well, there’s that then,” he said, his voice suddenly energised in his bid to regain some semblance of cheer. “Goodnight, Molly,”  
  
He haphazardly folded away the last bit of muslin he had been ironing and turned to walk to his bedroom. For a moment, he wanted to turn back to take one last look at the cot in the middle of the room they were standing in, but he resisted. Molly was awake, she was there, so Scott would not need him now. As the door to Sherlock’s own bedroom click shut, it struck him that Scott had never needed him anyway, and would never need him anymore. How glad he was to be behind closed doors at that very moment. Whether his face showed it or not, Sherlock always preferred to have his heart break in private.   
  
Molly glanced around the quiet and perfectly decorated living space she was in. It was neat, organised and in absolute contrast to the current wreckage in her chest. Her first instinct was to look for her baby, for _him_ to give _her_ comfort. Scott was fast asleep, but she picked him up anyway, cradling him close to her as she walked over to her armchair. There, she held her baby tight in her arms, kissed his little face and breathed in the scent of his lovely skin. The presence of her child was the only thing keeping her from breaking into pieces altogether. After all, it was the life and happiness of this very baby in her arms that sealed her decision to let one particular piece go.   
  
“He’s so clever, so funny…” she whispered against her baby’s temple, smiling as her eyes glistened, “And so _kind_ …”  
  
The baby stirred, making little noises from having been woken. Molly hushed him and rubbed his back as she rocked him gently back to sleep.   
  
“You’d love him, Scott,” she continued, “Well, we know you already do, don’t you? You were always jumping about when you heard his voice…”  
  
Molly laughed quietly to herself as her heart continued to bruise. She held Scott even closer, as though he were the tourniquet for her bleeding heart. Despite all the pain she was feeling, it amazed her that thoughts of Sherlock now were ones that made her smile. No longer were they memories tinged with hurt or insult, embarrassment or abandonment. Molly was never going to be sure of how he was really feeling, but if her reading of him was accurate, she could not deny that he had changed. Whatever his intentions were for changing, she was glad for them, for they seemed sincere enough. What could he get out of her, being kind to her _here_? What use was there for him to love _her_ baby? A baby that bore no relation to him in any way?   
  
“I always knew he was good…” she whispered to Scott, “He’ll always be a bit of a smart arse…but he _is_ good.”  
  
Sighing, Molly sank back into her armchair with her baby breathing gently against her chest as he finally settled back to sleep.   
  
“What do we do, Scott?” she asked the sleeping baby, “Has mummy made the right choice?”  
  
There was no response, of course, and Molly smiled pensively as she gazed down at Scott’s peaceful sleeping face baby. How her heart swelled each time she took in the presence of her baby. Sacrificing but a small piece of her heart was but a small price in order to protect her new life with Scott. It did not matter that Sherlock was different. It did not matter that he was _better_. Now, Scott was her everything and she would not let anything risk this newfound happiness.   
  
“Not even you, Sherlock Holmes,” she said quietly to herself, “Not even you,”  
  
With her free hand, she wiped away the few stray tears from her eyes and gathered herself together. Then, she got up from her seat and made her way back to her room with Scott in her arms. Carefully, she placed him in the cot in her bedroom and turned the lights down. As she lay herself down again, she thought about the impending goodbye between herself and the man who slept in the room next door. A sigh escaped her as she forced her eyes to close and her mind to still. The silence in the room seemed overwhelming, but Molly tried to ignore it in her attempt to grab a little more shut-eye. She had only just begun to forget the silence when she was startled by the sound of her mobile phone. Thankfully, it had been on silent and did not wake the baby. An incoming message had caused it to vibrate on her bedside table, buzzing just loud enough for her to hear. She sat up, oddly grateful for the distraction and reached for her phone.   
  
_Having trouble sleeping? — SH_  
  
Why was he sending her texts when he was just next door? It made her smile to herself and, despite how absurd it seemed, she found herself swiftly typing a reply back.   
  
_Sort of. Yourself? — M  
  
I don’t sleep, remember? — SH  
  
You and I both know that isn’t true… — M  
  
For my reputation’s sake, let’s just say it is.  
What’s keeping you awake? — SH  
  
Our conversation. — M  
  
Ah… — SH  
  
You asked me to reconsider, and it’s tempting. — M  
  
That’s an infinitely more positive response than I was expecting. — SH_  
  
Molly laughed at his response. She was suddenly reminded of his eyes, how crestfallen they had become. It seemed all this happiness they had been experiencing together was making both of them more heartbroken by the minute. It was all terribly ironic.   
  
Molly pondered those eyes again, and how she rarely saw them brazen and bright anymore. Her mind began to wander as she moved to remember his face, his reluctant smiles and his cocky smirks. She shook her head, stifling a laugh at the recollection, but stopped when memories of their kiss in the morgue came rushing back to her. She hung her head, sighing into her hands. If she had not been able to say goodbye then, how was she going to say goodbye now? The memories were now wrecking havoc with her mind as well as her heart rate. Frowning, Molly tried to shake away thoughts of their moment in the morgue only to realise then that he had stopped texting her. Reaching for her phone, she swiped at its screen and saw that indeed, he had not replied.   
  
“Bit silly, texting…” came his voice.   
  
Molly quite nearly dropped her phone as she looked up from her screen. Her door was open and there stood Sherlock, his hand still on the doorknob as he lingered by her doorway.   
  
“May I?” he asked, pointing to the inside of her room.   
  
Not quite able to respond yet, Molly simply nodded and put her phone away. Sherlock took a step in and shut the door quietly behind him. He walked over to the cot and peered into it, smiling gently at Scott who, thankfully, had not been woken by Sherlock’s sudden entrance. After a good long look at the little one, Sherlock walked quietly over to sit by the foot of Molly’s bed.   
  
“So, what’s up?” asked Molly, sitting up carefully.   
“Well, you are…” joked Sherlock.  
“As are you,” she joked in return.   
  
The pair of them smiled and made sure to remain as quiet as possible, but the air was still undeniably tense. Molly absentmindedly drummed her fingers on her knees as Sherlock’s gaze roamed the room and finally settled on a random painting just above the baby’s cot.   
  
“You going to tell me why you’re here in the middle of the night?” Molly asked, unable to contain her curiosity. _  
  
_ There was a small laugh that escaped the detective. It was soft, but grave.   
  
“To tempt you further,” answered Sherlock, with another resigned laugh. His eyes never rested on her but continued to wander, finding random objects in the room to stare at.   
  
Sighing, Molly got out of bed and moved to sit right beside where he was at the foot of the bed. She reached for his hand and leaned against him, shutting her eyes. Again, the battle of what was right and what was wrong waged quietly in her, but she ignored all the clamouring and went for what it was that she wanted. As foolish and impossibly selfish as it seemed, all she wanted right now was to love this man and to tell him and show him in every way possible. There was so much more she wanted to do, so much more she was _tempted_ to do, but she settled for resting against him, taking in the warm comfort of how close they were.   
  
“I’ll miss you, Molly,” said Sherlock, his voice cracking slightly.   
“Don’t say that…” she said, wrapping her fingers even tighter around his hand.   
_  
_ To her surprise, Molly felt Sherlock remove his hand from hers. Her open palm froze from the way he had so forcefully taken his hand away, but suddenly, he was back. Sherlock placed both hands on the sides of her face and kissed her. Her frozen hands no longer froze and reciprocated, nestling around his neck. As they kissed, Molly got up on her feet, not once breaking apart from him and moved to stand in front of him. Sherlock’s hands now moved down to her hips, clutching gently at them as he brought her closer to him. The both of them quite nearly forgot to breathe as they kissed the way they had been wanting to for a very long time. Their kiss in their morgue had now been forgotten as they forged this newer and much stronger memory. Over and over again, their lips met and moved, reluctant to part even for a breath. When they finally did part, their hearts were on the brink of bursting. Their foreheads touched as they caught their breaths, chuckling softly to themselves. Neither of them cared about whether or not it should have happened. They were only glad it did.   
  
“Let’s make a deal,” Molly whispered, kissing his forehead.   
“I’m listening,” he replied, his arms still firmly around her.   
“In three weeks, I get to go back to my own place, right?” she said.  
“Yes. That was the agreement with Ayumi,” he answered.   
“So, until then…” she said, kissing him again.   
“Yes?”  
“Let’s be happy, Sherlock,”  
“I don’t understand—”  
“For three weeks, let’s just do what we really want…” she whispered, shutting her eyes as she kissed his hair.   
  
Sherlock removed his hands from her waist and reached for hers that were still around his neck. He unwound her arms from around himself and held her hands in his.   
  
“So for three weeks, you, me and Scott…together,” he said, studying the perfect way their hands looked entwined.   
“Yes, together.”  
“And then I go,” he whispered, looking up from their hands and into her eyes.   
  
Molly nodded, smiling as a tear slid down her cheek.   
  
“And then you go,” she repeated, moving to wipe the tear that fell from his eye.   
“I accept,” he said, smiling as his voice cracked further.   
  
The anguish in his voice and in his eyes was almost too much to bear. Molly moved to hold him, wrapping her arms around him, almost crushing him against her chest. When she felt brave enough to look at his face again, she released her hold on him and returned to standing in front of him. Sherlock looked up at her, his eyes were wet but they were not as dead as before. It was heartening to see him at least try to smile. Eventually, it did touch his eyes a little and, for what it was worth, comforted her.   
  
“Well, three weeks,” he remarked as he got up from her bed, “It’s going to fly like the wind, isn’t it?”   
“Yes, it will,” she nodded, “But it’s still three weeks.”  
“Indeed,” he replied, smiling.   
  
Sherlock walked up to Molly to kiss her once more. He had three weeks to made sure he never forgot the softness of her skin or the perfection of her lips, but for now, it was time they went back to bed.   
  
“Goodnight, Molly,” he whispered, kissing her forehead before turning to leave.   
  
Having barely taken two steps, Sherlock was pleasantly surprised when Molly’s hand reached out to stop him as she grabbed him firmly by the arm.   
  
“Where do you think you’re going?” she asked him.   
“Back to bed, which you should be doing too,” Sherlock replied, a little puzzled.   
“I thought we had a deal,” said Molly, smirking at him.   
“Y-es…we do…” said Sherlock, still confused.   
  
Laughing, Molly tugged at his hand and moved to embrace him. She rested her head his chest as he automatically wrapped his arms around her.  
  
“Sherlock?” she murmured against his shirt.   
“Hmm?”  
  
A small laugh suddenly escaped Molly and it caught the detective by surprise. He stepped away from her and eyed her warily, but soon broke into a smile after.   
  
“What?” he asked, looking at her curiously.   
“Sleep with me,” she said, suddenly.   
  
The detective’s eyes widened as she looked up at him with amusement.   
  
“Are you asking…with the euphemism attached or not?” he asked, in an almost embarrassed whisper as he spaced his words out carefully.   
“Oh, Sherlock,” Molly said with a laugh, “If you have to ask, it means there isn’t one,”  
“But was there?” he pressed.  
  
Before Molly could answer, a piercing cry was heard as Scott woke from his sleep. Molly glanced quickly at the clock and realised his next feed was due. When she returned to look at Sherlock, the both of them stared at each other before bursting into laughter.   
  
“Well, it looks like our young man has other plans for us,” said Molly, looking up at Sherlock.   
  
Sherlock smiled at her choice of words and could not help but lean over to kiss her gently on the cheek.   
  
“Any plans of his are plans I am happy to accept,” he said, proving his point by making his way swiftly to the cot and picking the hungry baby up. He rubbed the baby’s back as he carried him to his mother, carefully handing the howling child over to Molly who had, by then, moved to sit in her feeding chair.   
  
“You’ll stay?” she asked, settling the baby against her.   
“Of course,” answered Sherlock, smiling at the both of them, “We had a deal.”


	34. Chapter 34

“Ma’am?” came the voice accompanied by a shy knock on the door.   
“Mm?” Ayumi replied, not quite looking up from her dossier.   
“There’s someone — ”  
“Send him in,” Ayumi answered without letting her officer finish, sighing as she shut the dossier.   
“Of course,” came the answer, followed by hurried footsteps that went to fetch her guest.   
  
Ayumi tidied her desk and put aside the materials she had been reading. She got up from her desk and moved to one of two lounge chairs nearer the front of her office. Soon, the footsteps she was expecting could be heard. They were soft, perfectly even and accompanied by the careful taps of the end of an umbrella.   
  
“I didn’t bring the whisky over, sorry,” she said, looking up with a quick smile at the man who entered her office.   
“That wasn’t what I came for,” Mycroft replied with a brief smile of his own. “May I?”  
“Please,” she said, gesturing to the chair opposite her.   
“Thank you,” he answered, settling into his seat.   
  
Ayumi offered Mycroft a glass of water, for that was all she had in her office. Leaning against her seat, she clasped her hands and placed them neatly on her lap.   
  
“So, what can I help you with?” she asked simply.   
“I won’t be here long. I merely came to check on things,” said Mycroft. “How is everyone?”  
“Well, as you know, Molly has had the most beautiful baby boy and I’m happy to report that both are in the absolute pink of health,” answered Ayumi, unable to resist a smile.   
“Splendid,” Mycroft too offered a smile. “And my brother?”  
“He’s being a wonderful source of support to Molly,” remarked Ayumi, “Your brother has changed, Mycroft.”  
“I know, which is why I worry…”  
“You always worry about him,” Ayumi said kindly, “Like the good big brother you are.”  
  
Mycroft offered a tight smile at her remark before taking a sip from his glass of water.  
  
“There’s a little more to worry about nowadays,” continued Mycroft.   
“Oh?”  
“This might have been eons ago, but the last time my brother had to separate from someone…someone that _mattered_ , it quite nearly broke him,” he explained, setting his glass down.  
  
The pair looked at one another for a moment before Ayumi nodded gently in understanding.   
  
“Redbeard,” she said quietly.  
“And now, Molly,” Mycroft remarked with a quiet sigh.   
“Well, it might be different this time…”  
“I certainly hope so…”  
  
True to his word, Mycroft did not stay long. Taking his cue from the natural decline of their conversation, he stood up from his seat, causing Ayumi to rise from hers too. The pair exchanged polite smiles with one another, as though they were diplomats at a photo call. Mycroft retrieved his umbrella that had been resting against the side of his chair and proceeded to exit the room. She followed quietly behind, politely seeing her visitor out of her office. Before he reached for the door, Mycroft turned to ask Ayumi one final thing.   
  
“You haven’t _quite_ answered my question, Ayumi,” said Mycroft.    
“Haven’t I?” she answered, frowning slightly.   
“I’d inquired about _everyone_ , and you’ve neglected a rather important person,”   
  
His words caused her to let out a soft chuckle. At the sound of her laugh, Mycroft seemed to relax a little, his eyes softening as he rested his gaze on her.   
  
“So?” he pressed, waiting for her answer.   
  
With a smile on her face, Ayumi reached to place a gentle hand on the elbow of his jacket.   
  
“I’m fine, Mycroft,” she answered, “Thank you for asking.”  
  
At her answer, Mycroft gave her a final nod and one last warm smile before turning the handle and letting himself out of her office. 

* * *

It was the worst sort of time travel to experience. Where Sherlock and Molly wanted time to slow down as much as possible, it seemed to flash by them mercilessly. Days went by like the second hand on a clock. It was cruel but it was their present reality. They had developed such a simple but wonderful rhythm at home, caring for Scott and for one another. Indeed, they had taken to calling the baby _theirs_ as opposed to just Molly’s. After all, this was the temporary paradise that they had both elected to indulge in before their final separation. The thought of separation was pushed far away from both their minds as they focused on their time together. Scott was a particularly perfect distraction for when either of their minds wandered to what would happen at the end of their little utopia.  
  
There was little talk of the fact that Sherlock was probably never going to see Scott or Molly ever again. The notion did creep into his headspace every once in a while but the detective made sure to immediately delete it, or to replace it with something. He had taken to filling the vault of his memories with those of Scott. He made sure to memorise the different ways the boy cried, smiled, slept, breathed, every gesture the baby made, Sherlock remembered. Never had he appreciated his incredible photographic memory more than he did now. His thoughts filled up nicely with those of the little boy, but while there was no limit to what he let himself remember of the boy, Sherlock made sure to restrain himself when it came to the amount of memories he allowed of Molly.   
  
“100 _yen_ for your thoughts,” joked Molly as she settled beside him on the sofa after having had another shower. They had just finished a feed when Scott regurgitated all over her blouse again. So whilst Sherlock calmed the infant down, Molly had gone to clean herself up.   
  
“I’ll have you know my thoughts are tax-inclusive…” the detective joked back.  
“All right. 108 _yen_ then,” she answered with a chuckle.  
  
When Molly was comfortably seated, Sherlock handed the baby carefully to her. Whilst the two of them had waited for Molly, Scott had drifted off into a partial snooze and now stirred awake from having been handed over to his mother.    
  
“Hello,” Molly whispered, beaming at her baby.   
  
Gently but very deftly, Molly manoeuvred the tiny body in her arms, resting her hands against a cushion on her lap as she held him such that he faced both Sherlock and her. With a smile on his face, Sherlock leaned against Molly, gazing down at the little boy who looked up at them with bright, curious eyes.   
  
“He’s such an inquisitive little boy, you know?” remarked Sherlock.   
“How do you mean?” asked Molly, letting Scott’s tiny fingers wrap around her thumb.   
“Look at the way he studies the room,” he explained, “You can see him thinking about his surroundings all the time.”  
“I’ll bet _you_ were like that as an infant,” Molly said, amused.  
“I wouldn’t know,” he answered with a smirk, “You’ll have to ask Mycroft.”  
“Not your mother?” asked Molly.  
“No, not my mother,” Sherlock replied swiftly, “Mycroft.”  
  
There was a short silence as Molly pondered Sherlock’s words. It struck her then that the only family Sherlock had ever really mentioned or talked with her about was his older brother. His tone worried her slightly. It made her wonder if perhaps Sherlock had not had a mother, or if something tragic had happened.  
  
“Was your mother not—”  
“She was perfectly normal,” Sherlock interjected, “But that was just it. She was normal.”  
“I don’t understand…”  
“You’ve met my brother…” he continued.  
“Y-es…”  
“So you know that he _isn’t_ normal. His powers of observation are vastly sharper than everyone else’s, mine included.”  
“That’s probably the greatest compliment you’ve ever paid your brother, Sherlock,” said Molly with a laugh.   
“He would watch me like no other. Sharper than a hawk,” Sherlock recollected. ‘Which meant he _knew_ me like no other. Besides, we were essentially the same breed of odd…”  
“He must have taken brilliant care of you,” Molly said, understanding what Sherlock could not say.  
“I don’t ever remember crying much as a child,” continued Sherlock, a little wistfully, “He’d always address the issue before I needed to make a fuss about it.”  
“Well, if we ever need a babysitter, I know who to call then,” Molly said with a smile.  
“Yes,” said Sherlock, blinking as he snapped back from his wistfulness. “So if you want to know what I was like as a baby, he’s the one to ask.”  
“I’ll be sure to remember that,” said Molly, placing one hand on top of Sherlock’s and holding it firmly.   
  
Seeing her hand over his, Sherlock took the liberty of moving his hand to take hers so that he could kiss it. It brought a smile to her face every time his lips touched her skin, which in turn brought warmth to his heart. It took every ounce of willpower not to stow that sensation away among his memories. Thankfully, Scott began to coo gently as he kicked his little legs about. Something must have caught his attention and it seemed to delight him.   
  
“What have you seen, hey?” Sherlock asked, grateful for the timely distraction as he peered down at the boy.   
  
When his face loomed over Scott’s, the baby averted his gaze from whatever he was looking at and turned to lock eyes with the detective. It made Sherlock’s heart lurch every time he came face to face with Scott. Being only a few weeks old meant Scott still was not awake most of the time. However, in the rare instances that he was awake and had his eyes open, Sherlock never failed to seize the opportunity to catch the baby’s attention.   
  
“Come on, give us a smile…” joked Sherlock, reaching to gently tap the baby’s soft cheek with his finger.   
  
He knew it was still too soon yet for the baby to properly interact and to smile and respond to him, but he never stopped trying. If this was the only time he was going to get with Scott, he was going to keep trying _  
  
“_ Go on,” Molly joined in, tapping his fingers that were still wrapped around her thumb, “Just one small smile for your—”  
  
Molly paused just in time, preventing the wrong word from slipping out. Sherlock had caught it of course. Despite not having heard it, the thought of being the boy’s father was most unsettling, but sorely for the fact that it _wanted_ to settle. Sherlock wanted to call the boy his own and the thought was _absolutely_ ready to take root in his mind, overtaking all of him.   
  
Sherlock desperately fought the word that he almost wished Molly had said. What a beautiful faux pas that would have been. His heart could not help but warm up at the sound of it in his head. Molly panicked slightly, almost breaking into a cold sweat at what would have been a very terrible slip of the tongue. She could see the look in Sherlock’s eyes that what she had not said had still managed to affect him, that it had rocked the equilibrium he had steadily built for himself. Molly began to internally berate herself and yet, she knew perfectly well why it had even occurred to her.  
  
“Well, you know what they say…” Molly said, ever so quietly.  
“Hmm?” was all Sherlock could muster as he focused on Scott’s face.  
“Out of the fullness of the heart…” she began, focusing also on her son’s face, “speaks the mouth.  
“Except you didn’t say anything,” Sherlock said with a tight smile, still grappling with his thoughts.     
“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” Molly whispered.  
“Don’t be,” he said turning to her, “It comforts me to know what your heart was full with.”  
“Yes,” Molly replied quietly, “I think about it all the time. Even though I shouldn’t.”  
“Well, I can’t blame you. I might be a rubbish human being but I have my amazing moments,” he said in jest, though rather melancholically.  
“Never doubt that you are amazing, Sherlock,” Molly remarked, reaching to squeeze his hand again. “You have _always_ been amazing.”  
“But I have also _always_ been a rubbish human being,” he responded with a rather half-hearted laugh.   
“I’m sure Scott would disagree,” Molly replied encouragingly.   
“Well, we won’t get to know each other long enough for him to find out,” said Sherlock, getting up suddenly, “Which I suppose is a good thing.”  
  
Sherlock cricked his neck and smoothed the creases on his shirt. Molly remained where she was with Scott in front of her, not daring to look back up at Sherlock.   
  
“Anyway,” said Sherlock, reaching for his coat and a scarf, “The weather looks lovely for a walk outside. Shall we?”   
  
There was a smile on his face, but Molly could see how hard he was trying to keep up appearances. Nevertheless, she smiled back, hoping it would support his.   
  
“Yes, let’s.” she answered. Sherlock’s smile seemed more genuine this time as he walked over to take the baby.   
  
Molly quickly went to pop her own coat on and grabbed a scarf as well. When she was done, she walked over to a shelf and reached for Scott’s baby sling. Sherlock had already gone ahead and dressed the infant for their walk outdoors, managing to do up the boy’s little booties whilst having him cradled in his arms.  
  
“So, you or me?” asked Molly, holding the sling up as she moved towards Sherlock.   
  
The detective bent to kiss the baby’s tiny forehead before looking up to give Molly a smile. A real, proper smile.   
_  
“_ Need you even ask?” he replied, moving to kiss her on the forehead as he reached to take the sling from her. 

* * *

They had only been in the park for a few hours when the sky began to darken. Molly had spent the entire time taking photos of Sherlock and the baby, sometimes without him even noticing. It was a most peculiar but beautiful sight, to see the tall detective and his dark mop of curls, dressed in his signature suit and long coat with a lime green sling across his chest and the top of Scott’s head peeking out from the fabric.   
  
Wherever Sherlock walked, he would talk to the baby, almost forgetting Molly was there with him too. He would explain the science behind the low winter sun and how the height of its rays differed according to the season, resulting in him launching into a monologue about a case he had solved some years back where the direction of the sun had been his greatest clue. Molly laughed quietly to herself as she heard him regale cases to her newborn son whilst following steadily behind them, snapping photos where she could. It was when those very sunrays Sherlock had been talking about began to disappear that she had to interrupt him, suggesting that they stopped to get some dinner before heading home.   
  
“Well, we had plenty of fun, didn’t we, Scott?” Sherlock asked the baby, kissing the top of his head.   
“He loves the sound of your voice,” said Molly, moving to stand beside him.   
  
Sherlock turned to look at her and smiled gently at her words. The thought of the boy having taken to him even from inside her womb was one he would keep always. It was certainly going to help him when he would no longer have Scott in his life. Sherlock took Molly’s hand in his and together, they walked slowly out of the park and to the nearest _konbini_.  
  
When they walked up to the small convenience shop that housed their favourite instant dinners, they were grateful for the warmth it offered. Stepping inside, Molly removed her gloves and rubbed her hands together, whilst Sherlock adjusted the sling to make sure Scott was comfortable. They took a few steps in when Molly saw something and turned to look at Sherlock. Sherlock glanced back at her, having already noticed what she had seen. He raised an eyebrow, almost as though wanting to protest what he knew she was about to suggest. She nodded firmly with a huge grin on her face as she grabbed the man she loved by the arm and pulled him to a photo booth right beside where the cashiers were.   
  
“Isn’t Scott a little too young to be in want of a photo for a driver’s licence?” said Sherlock with a smirk.   
  
His words were a direct response to the obvious advertisement adorning the photo booth that this was the best and quickest way to get any official photos for things like driver’s licenses or identification cards. Indeed, the photo booth was one of those that people could quickly pop in and out of to take any kind of miniature-sized photos for whatever formal purposes they were needed for. Molly was very accustomed to these booths, for Ayumi had taught her how to use them for when she needed to take photos for the heaps of paperwork she had to prepare during her first year in the country.   
  
“Come on, it’ll be fun,” Molly chuckled, refusing to let go of him.   
“Do _you_ want to take a family photo, Scott?” Sherlock asked the baby in jest, only to realise that this time, he was the one who had made the faux pas.   
  
There was an awkward pause as the three of them stood in silence by the entrance of the photo booth. Then, it was Molly who first cracked a smile and walked toward her baby, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek.   
  
“Of course you do, don’t you, Scott?” she asked her baby.   
  
Molly lifted her gaze to meet Sherlock’s and gave him a reassuring squeeze on his arm. She was relieved when a smile finally appeared on his face.  
  
“Well, if the young man insists…” Sherlock remarked, stepping carefully into the booth. Molly could not help but chuckle when she saw him push aside the grey curtain as he carefully manoeuvred his tall frame into the rather un-spacious booth. Suddenly, the curtain flipped open and Sherlock gestured to her in mock impatience, causing Molly to chuckle once more.   
  
“Come on, mummy, what are you waiting for?” he said with a handsome grin.   
“Sorry, lads,” she replied in amusement as she quickly popped some coins into the slot by the door and hopped into the booth.  

* * *

“There…” Molly said in accomplishment.   
  
She put her scissors down and admired the two neat rows containing three miniature photographs each of the three of them, baby, pathologist and detective, that she had just neatly trimmed. Molly got up immediately and put hers inside her wallet. When she returned to the living room, Sherlock had just finished drying the cups and had begun walking over to where she had been sitting.   
  
“What are you feeling so victorious about?” asked the detective, frowning as he took a seat beside her.   
  
With a smile on her face, Molly reached for the remaining panel of three photographs and handed it to Sherlock. The detective hesitated, not even wanting to glance at the photographs. Even at the booth itself, Sherlock had declined to look at the finished product, insisting they needed to hurry before their favourite dinners were sold out. This time, he could offer no excuse as he gingerly reached to take the strip in her hands.   
  
“This one’s yours,” said Molly, looking up at him.  
  
Responding to her words and to the photograph seemed impossible in that instant. The words had been simple, their meaning equally uncomplicated but it registered a different one in the detective’s head altogether. He wanted to laugh at how silly he was feeling, and at the fact that he was _feeling_ and not logically processing her statement. Instead, a sliver of sentiment escaped as he gazed wistfully at the three little frames that contained their three little faces.   
  
“But he isn’t, is he?” Sherlock let slip, “Mine, that is.”  
  
At his words, Molly was at a loss for her own. How did one respond to that? She swallowed hard, struggling to find a decent response to the detective’s rare display of melancholy. Instead, she remained tongue tied whilst the detective continued.   
  
“And neither are you, for that matter…”   
  
Sherlock laughed a quiet, cheerless laugh as he ran his thumb over their most lovely portrait. How he had managed to smile in the photographs like that amazed him. A series of photographs that would be his only memento of the only two people that ever meant anything to him.   
  
“I won’t miss the laundry,” he began, drastically changing topic in order to lift the mood. “And I definitely won’t miss bath time. The terrifying smallness and fragility of babies’ bodies really intensify when you put them in a body of water…”  
  
Soon, chuckles broke between the pair of them as they relaxed, both forcing aside the heavy air of melancholy that draped around them. Goodbye was soon, _so_ soon that it was terrifying, and they were glad for any moments of lightheartedness. What they had not been expecting, however, was to hear knocks on their door so late into the night.   
  
“Who could it be?” Molly whispered, a little alarmed. She knew she had nothing to worry about, what with being in the depth of one of Ayumi’s safest bases. Nevertheless, the knocks made her sit up and eye the door warily.   
  
Sherlock paused, recalling the timbre and pattern of the knocks as he began surveying his current environment. Moments later, Molly caught him rolling his eyes as he leapt out of his seat and headed straight for the door, opening it wide.  
  
“Yes?” he asked, his jaw slightly clenched.   
“Brother mine, Molly…” came the calm voice of Mycroft, instantly relaxing Molly who, until this point, had remained frozen on the sofa.   
“What in G—”  
“No need to burst a vessel,” Mycroft said, raising a hand to his brother’s face, “I’ve merely come to bring you something.”  
  
In Mycroft’s leather-gloved hands was a large brown envelope. He handed it to his little brother who took it grudgingly, having instantly recognised its contents and therefore understanding its purpose.   
  
“My distraction,” the detective muttered, gripping the edge of the envelope a little too forcefully.   
“Yes,” Mycroft replied, “To ease you into your departure.”  
“Will it?” Sherlock said with gritted teeth.  
“I can only hope so, little brother…” said Mycroft, who had already turned around and begun walking away from their door.   
  
The detective shut the door quietly behind him as he let out a sharp exhale.   
  
“Are you going to tell me what that was all about?” asked Molly.   
  
He sighed again and marched toward the sofa, sinking back down beside her. He ripped the envelope open and spilled the dossier into her lap.  
  
“Case,” he said simply.   
“Ah, I see. _Distraction_ …” Molly said.   
“Been spreading like wildfire back home, these murders…” said Sherlock, “Especially since I’ve been away.”  
  
Carefully, Molly undid the thread that bound the dossier and turned to the first page. Both Sherlock and Molly’s eyes widened in wonder at the sight of the first gruesome photo that greeted them.   
  
“ _That’s_ a decapitation and a half…” Molly exclaimed, tapping her index finger at the glossy spread of gore before them.   
“Eighths, more like…” replied Sherlock, as he peered closer at the smorgasbord of hacked limbs.   
“We’re going to be up all night…” said Molly, turning eagerly to the next page.  
“ _We_?” asked Sherlock, turning to her with a quizzical expression.  
“Sherlock, I’ve not been to work in months, not worked on _cases_ in years…you _cannot_ expect me to ignore something like this…” she said, her eyes glued to the coroner’s report she was now perusing.   
  
The detective’s eyes glistened at her endearingly enthusiastic response. First, with delight and then, with a tinge of sadness.  
  
“You’re right,” he said, shifting to make his posture more upright.   
“About?” Molly replied, still not averting her eyes from the case file.   
“About working on the case…together,” he replied, turning to look at her.   
  
Feeling his gaze on her, Molly finally stopped turning the pages and looked up into the earnest dark eyes before her.   
  
“Just like old times?” she said, smiling gently at him.   
“Exactly.” he answered, smiling in return.   
  
Sherlock then moved to kiss her swiftly on the cheek, only to cause her to turn her face so they could kiss again on the lips. When their lips parted, their foreheads remained touching as they smiled very bittersweet and resigned smiles.   
  
“At least,” he said, kissing her softly once more on the tip of her nose, “It would be creating a memory of you that wouldn’t hurt so much,”  
“If it’s any consolation,” Molly replied, looking earnestly up at him, “It’s going to be the same for me too.”  
  
They laughed gently with their faces remaining close. Their hands had already moved to grasp each other’s fingers.   
  
“But…we are practical people, are we not?” Sherlock remarked quietly, ignoring the growing ache in his chest.   
“Practical. Yes. The very best,” Molly said with a sad laugh.   
“We are practical people.”  
“We are the most practical people we know,” Molly added, smiling as she bit her lip to hold her sorrow back.   
_“_ Which is why I am still going.”  
“And why I will not stop you.”  
“But just because I am not fighting to stay, Molly Hooper, doesn’t mean that I don’t —”  
  
Molly stopped him by gently covering his mouth with her hand, shaking her head as she smiled at him with glistening eyes.   
  
“Do not say it,” she whispered, her jaw tightly clenched, “You do _not_ say these things, Sherlock Holmes.”  
  
Their eyes met, both now awash with emotion, but with no tears spilling out for they had become experts in restraining their sorrow. Instead, Sherlock wrapped his fingers gently around her wrist, slowly removing her hand from his mouth. He looked down at their hands, how they were now so easily and naturally entwined and smiled wistfully to himself.   
  
“No, you’re right. I _don’t_ say these things,” he remarked, nodding in agreement.   
“You told me once sentiment made you malfunction,” said Molly, with a slight chuckle.   
  
The detective smiled in return, remembering having said those words.   
  
“So don’t say it,” she whispered, her throat tightening with emotion. “Don’t.”  
  
Sherlock shook his head in wonder. Even now, she thought only of his welfare. With his heart about ready to burst, he took her swiftly in his arms and nearly crushed her to him. Molly sank into the warmth of his hold and closed her eyes as she took in the closeness of the man she knew she would always love. It was impossible for either of them to let go, but the self-proclaimed practical people that they were eventually loosened their grip on each other and moved slowly apart. They cleared their throats and sat back properly beside each other, leaning into the sofa. The dossier had slid off Molly’s lap onto the floor, spilling all the photos and reports into a nice fan.   
  
The air was quiet for a bit, as the both of them gathered their feelings and tucked them neatly away. Now was the time to have their wits about them and not sink into their silently brewing heartache.  
  
“So, shall we begin?” Sherlock asked, peering down at the scattered documents.   
“Yes, but first…” remarked Molly, getting up from her seat.   
  
Puzzled, the detective raised an eyebrow as he watched the most capable pathologist he knew make her way to the kitchen.   
  
“I was wondering if you’d like to have coffee,” she said, a smile slowly returning to her face.   
  
Sherlock dropped his head as he chuckled softly before swiftly getting up to join her in the kitchen.   
  
“Black, two sugars,” he said, “And one more kiss, if you don’t mind.”  
  
It was Molly’s turn to laugh as she tiptoed to touch her lips to his.   
  
“Was that okay?” she asked teasingly.   
“I could do with a few more…” he teased back, snaking his arms around her.   
“But we have murders to solve,” she remarked, smiling as she leaned her head against his chest.  
  
Sherlock laughed quietly again as he held her close to him, savouring the sensation of having her in his arms.   
_  
_ “The murders can wait,” he murmured, kissing the top of her head as he relented, stowing away just a few more beautiful memories of Molly Hooper.


	35. Chapter 35

“You’re not making it very easy to type, are you?” said Sherlock to the actively kicking baby in the sling he had across his chest. Molly had had some errands to run and needed to pop by the university hospital for the afternoon, leaving the detective and Scott alone at home to entertain themselves. Sherlock had just survived giving Scott a bath all on his own and the baby, now refreshed and neatly changed, seemed rather alert and active and was certainly not about to fall asleep any time soon.   
  
“Right, let’s settle down a bit so I can set this up…” he said, gently adjusting the sling so the baby could continue to kick about comfortably and safely.   
  
After a little bit of typing and a click of a mouse here and there, Sherlock smiled in satisfaction when the dial tone began to sound and the bell-shaped icon appeared. Within seconds, the dial tone stopped and a good old familiar face swam into view on his laptop screen.   
  
“Are you smiling?” asked that familiar voice, clearly amused.   
“I’ll confess it’s been a decent month…” answered the detective.   
“Is that…”   
“Yu-p. Say hello to Scott Hooper.”  
  
Sherlock could not help but smile as he saw the face of John Watson peer closer at his own screen in order to get a better look at the baby. John waved at the baby and tried calling his name to get his attention. All attempts had failed, of course, for Scott was far more occupied with the ceiling lights, but it did not dampen John’s delight at having finally seen Molly’s baby.   
  
“He’s looking well,” said John, “Bright eyes and energetic.”  
“I know,” Sherlock remarked, looking down proudly at Scott.  
  
The sight of Sherlock gazing with smiling eyes at the baby in his arms and quite possibly about to actually smile was a new experience for John Watson. He rubbed his palms together and chuckled, leaning back into his seat as he shook his head in amused disbelief.  
  
“A month in Japan and you’ve turned into a soppy mess…” John exclaimed with a grin.   
“A month with _Molly_ …” Sherlock corrected, smirking.   
“So you admit it then?” asked John.  
“Admit what?”  
“That Molly is…well, obviously important to you…”  
“I have, in a sense…though it’s really not my area,” qualified the detective.   
“Well, she’s letting you watch her baby, unsupervised. I’m guessing you’ve made up for a lot of things in the time you’ve been there…”   
“I have tried,” he answered quietly, “But there are some things that can never be made up for.”  
  
The mood took a turn as the subject matter made the unfortunate segue into Sherlock’s departure. Sherlock subconsciously held Scott a little tighter to himself as he cleared his throat, unprepared for the next topic of conversation. There no longer was any amusement or jest on John’s face when he saw the light go out from his best friend’s eyes.   
  
“Do you want to talk about tomorrow?” asked John, breaking the silence at last.   
  
It was odd that John should have had to ask that when the whole reason this video meeting had been set up was to talk about the fact that the very next day, Sherlock would be leaving Japan. Sherlock was no longer calling it his ‘departure’. Instead, Sherlock was now calling it his ‘return to London’. It was his way of coping with it, easing into its reality. Having Mycroft pass him one of the more pressing cases from back home helped focus the detective’s mind on what he was headed towards rather than what he was leaving behind.   
  
“I don’t want to,” Sherlock answered quietly, “But I should, shouldn’t I?”  
“Yes, I think you should,” John replied in earnest.  
  
They were interrupted by a spate of excited little coos made by Scott. Something had fascinated him and it caused him to stretch out his tiny hands as he made sweet little gurgling noises. The two men smiled, glad for such a pleasant interruption.   
  
“I can tell it’s going to be difficult,” said John, “I mean, I’ve never seen you look at _anybody_ like that…”  
“Scott’s special…” said Sherlock with a brief smile, “Always will be.”  
“Why can’t you all be together?” John asked, “Is it _really_ that complicated?”  
“No, John…” the detective answered wistfully, “It is that _simple_.”  
  
Laughing, John shook his head. None of this made sense to him. Clearly, both Molly and Sherlock wanted the opposite of what they had elected to do. It confounded him that they were picking such a torturous option. How was being _this_ miserable the most practical arrangement for them?   
  
“Right. So choosing to let everybody suffer and be miserable…is the simple choice,” John summarised, raising a quizzical brow.   
“You don’t understand—”  
“You’re right, I don’t. I didn’t before, and I still don’t. Why are you and Molly doing this to yourselves? I bet if Scott could speak he’d be telling the both of you off…” John exclaimed, exasperated.  
  
Sherlock took a deep breath and looked down at Scott before looking back up at John. His best friend leaned back against his seat, arms folded tight across his chest as he waited for Sherlock, master of all things logical, to offer a logical explanation.   
  
“Molly has her career…” Sherlock began.  
“She had one in Bart’s. A great one she can have back at _any_ moment…”  
“One of her closest friends is here…”  
“That friend is an international intelligence agent who is practically in every country all the bloody time…”  
“Not when Molly was in Japan…”  
“Enough, Sherlock,” John exclaimed, cutting him off. “I’ve never heard you make _so_ many excuses before.   
  
The both of them sighed, looking momentarily away from each other. Even Scott seemed to wind down a little and did not seem to want to kick about so much anymore. A tiny yawn escaped from him and Sherlock shifted the baby carefully in the sling so that he could begin rocking him to sleep. With Scott nicely curled up in the sling, Sherlock gently patted the baby as he pondered John’s words.   
  
“We…love each other…” said Sherlock ever so quietly, “This much I know.”  
“It is _very_ strange hearing you say that,” John said with a smirk, “But I’m glad you have.”  
“We do,” repeated Sherlock.   
“But?”  
“It doesn’t mean we have to,” Sherlock explained.  
  
He was so calm when he said it, for he had resigned to this fact ages ago. When Molly had said it herself, that no matter what they felt for each other, it was best they were separate, he had agreed. Going against every fibre of what he had _felt_ , he had concluded the same, and so agreed. There had been too much damage and it was only logical that Molly was hesitant. He had come to realise that no matter how much he tried, it would never fully repair some of the damage he had caused. Being Sherlock Holmes, there would always be that side of him that could cause damage again. Neither wanted to risk that. Even after all that had transpired and all the change that Sherlock had been through, neither wanted to risk it, certainly not with Scott in the picture. If Sherlock could not trust himself, how much more could Molly trust him?   
  
John could only sigh at his best friend’s explanation. Could he see their point? Yes, of course he could. If anyone knew Sherlock Holmes and all the sides of Sherlock Holmes, it was John Watson. Yet, he marvelled at how fearful they were being. How did they not see their present happiness? Why were they only fixated on their negative hypotheses of their own future together? Nevertheless, John could see that both had their decisions set in concrete. They had decided this was for the better and perhaps, for the sake of his best friend, he should support him rather than confound him any further.   
  
“You sure about this, Sherlock?” asked John, still struggling to be convinced.  
“I have to be,” answered Sherlock matter-of-factly, “I simply have to be.”

* * *

It was a relief that despite her months away from work, everything in the hospital laboratory she ran was operating smoothly. Molly went through as much as she could of all the updated research that had transpired in her absence. Some had surprisingly good results, whilst others had hit roadblocks, leaving her with a frown etched on her face. With a sigh, she closed one of the more disappointing dossiers and reached for another, hoping for a more positive case to read. As she leaned back in her swivel chair, she heard a knock at her office door. Assuming it was one of her team members, she told them to come in and shut back the current folder in her hands.   
  
“I was taught the phrase, but my Japanese pronunciation isn’t very good…” came a familiar, soothing voice.   
“Mycroft, hello…” Molly exclaimed, genuinely surprised.   
“It’s been a long time, Molly,” he said, offering a quick smile.   
“Ah, _that_ phrase. Yes, it _is_ rather complicated. I mess it up often myself,” she replied with a smile of her own, “Good thing we both speak English.”  
“And it certainly is good to see you,” he continued.  
“Same here, Mycroft,” Molly said, “Please, have a seat.”  
  
The pair of them moved to a little seating area in the corner of her office. There were two small brown armchairs and a single square of a coffee table. Molly asked if Mycroft wanted a drink but he politely declined. When they were both seated, it surprised them both how at ease they were in each other’s presence, even after having not seen each other in so long.   
  
“I have so many things to thank you for, Mycroft…” Molly began.   
“Well, you shouldn’t thank me yet…” Mycroft replied, smirking.  
“Also, it was a great move to give Sherlock the case file,” she said.  
“It was his suggestion, if you must know,” answered Mycroft.  
“Really?” Molly exclaimed in surprise.  
“He isn’t always foolish, Molly,” Mycroft said with a small laugh, “He’s been thinking about this for a very long time.”  
“Thinking about what?” she asked.   
“How to leave you,” said Mycroft, “and Scott…and all of _this_ …”  
  
There was a small sigh that escaped Molly’s lips. She remained sat upright, placing her clasped hands on her knees as she thought of what to say.   
  
“You seem at a loss for words,” said Mycroft suddenly.  
“Anyone could have deduced that…” Molly said with a light laugh.  
“Then I shall speak,” he continued.   
“Please do…” Molly replied as she attempted to relax, leaning back into her seat.   
  
Mycroft cleared his throat and sat a little straighter, his gaze a little less icy than usual.   
  
“Is there nothing that can be done to change your mind?” asked Mycroft, cutting to the chase.   
“No, there isn’t,” Molly answered, far quicker than she had realised.   
“Is there nothing _I_ can do to change your mind?” asked Mycroft again, with one of his rare, gentle smiles.   
  
Molly could not help but smile at his words. She dropped her head as she reached to rub a temple, exhaling slowly.   
  
“I threw you a party once, so you could say goodbye to Sherlock,” Mycroft reminded her,  
“Do you remember how that turned out?”  
“How is it that _you_ remember how it turned out?” Molly asked, laughing as she shook her head.   
“Because it had turned out as I had predicted,” he answered swiftly, “That it had not concluded according to plan,”  
“Depends on whose plan it was, I suppose,” Molly said, grimacing into her hands.   
  
It was Mycroft’s turn to sigh as he tapped his fingers, frustrated, against the arm of his seat.   
  
“I don’t understand the both of you,” Mycroft said, finally.  
“Neither do I, to be honest,” Molly answered, her face still buried in her hands.   
  
There seemed to be an insurmountable obstacle and Mycroft was unaccustomed to anything being insurmountable. However, the same resolution he had sensed in her those years ago when she had decisively left for Japan seemed to have remained in her.   
  
“As always, Molly, I will honour your decision,” Mycroft said quietly, “But I _have_ to ask…is this really what you want?”  
  
There were a few moments of silence before Molly finally looked up from her hands. She stared into Mycroft’s kind but worried eyes and smiled at him reassuringly.   
  
“This is what it has to be,” she answered, “Nothing can change that.”  
  
With a nod of understanding, Mycroft reached for his umbrella and rose from his seat. He looked at Molly’s resolute face and did his best to ignore the undercurrent of melancholy he could sense behind it. He was going to respect her decision and he would never do anything otherwise.   
  
“Well, I suppose I should go then,” he said, making for the door, “Thank you for your time, Molly.”  
  
They walked in silence towards her office door. Molly watched every step Mycroft took, knowing full well that each step was a step further away from any last chances she could have to change the current situation. It was when Mycroft’s hand reached for the knob that Molly found herself reaching to stop him as she grabbed his arm.   
  
“Wait…” she found herself saying.  
“Change of plan?” Mycroft asked, raising an eyebrow.  
“I don’t know,” she said, letting go, “I’m sorry, I…”  
“You’re considering it,” Mycroft said, releasing his hand from the doorknob.   
“Am I?” Molly asked, but mostly asking herself.   
“In any case, it looks like I’ll be here for a little while more,” Mycroft remarked, returning to his seat, “I’ll take up that offer of tea now, if you don’t mind.”

* * *

By the time she had come home, Molly was drained, emotionally more than anything. However, the sight that greeted her was enough to lift her spirits a little as she saw the figure of the man she loved hunched over an ironing board still trying to iron out the baby’s muslin.   
  
“It’s all going to get crumpled and stained with spit anyway,” she said, walking towards him.  
“It just stacks up nicer when pressed properly,” answered the detective, not once looking up from his ironing.   
  
Laughing to herself, Molly moved to where her baby was, peering affectionately into his cot. He had been fed and bathed and expertly swathed, sleeping so peacefully it made for such a perfect picture.   
  
“You survived bath time,” Molly said with another laugh, turning to look at Sherlock.  
  
Having finally put the iron down, Sherlock moved to stand by Molly, tucking his hands into his pockets as he stared down at the sleeping baby.   
  
“Yes, I did,” he answered, “Though it was still terrifying.”  
  
They both burst into chuckles but were careful not to wake Scott. Sherlock placed an arm around her, pulling her gently to his side as he planted a quick kiss on her hair.   
  
“It’s nice to have you back home,” he whispered.  
“It’s good to be home,” she replied, leaning against him.  
“Pity about tomorrow then,” Sherlock remarked with a sad little laugh.  
“Are you packed?” Molly asked, changing the subject before his could become one.   
“Yes, apart from Scott,” joked Sherlock.   
  
It made Molly smile to hear him say that, but it also continued to tug at her already heavy heart.   
  
“I’m…going to have a shower…” she said.  
“I’ll take Scott into your room,” said Sherlock.  
  
After Sherlock had very carefully transported the sleeping baby into the cot inside Molly’s room, he pottered around aimlessly for a bit, checking his bags and flipping through the case file he and Molly had already partially solved. When he finally ran out of things to do, he merely sat at the edge of her bed, keeping his eyes on the sleeping baby’s cot. It was then that he heard the bathroom door click open as Molly emerged dressed for bed and with her hair still slightly damp.   
  
“Do you want help with that?” he asked, pointing to the towel around her neck.   
“If you wouldn’t mind…” she said, sinking into a spot beside him, “Today’s been…draining.”  
“What did you do?” he asked, settling into position as he took the towel from her hands.  
“Read too many reports… saw too many failed tests…” she listed, shutting her eyes as she let Sherlock gently dry the damp ends of her hair.   
“Sorry to hear that,” he said, rubbing the back of her neck as he dried her hair, “But it’ll come out brilliantly in the end. Because _you’re_ brilliant.”  
“That’s sweet of you, Sherlock, thank you,” Molly answered with a smile.    
“At the rate you’re going, you might actually defeat death,” he continued encouragingly.   
“Ha, then you’d be out of a job,” she joked back, “Wouldn’t want that, would you?”  
“I could retire…set up my beehives…” he said, removing the towel as he began to gently massage her shoulders.   
“You and your bees,” Molly remarked with a laugh.   
“Holmes’ Honeycombs…that could be a thing, couldn’t it?” he said, unable to hold back a laugh.   
  
It was nice to unwind like this, as they often did nowadays. Sherlock was an expert now in relieving any knots in Molly’s shoulders, identifying all the pressure points that would relieve her of any migraines or aches she had. He never allowed her to return the favour, insisting he wanted to perfect it before passing the knowledge on to her, which always resulted in them bursting into chuckles again. Sherlock would miss laughter like this, laugher with her, and listening to _her_ laughter.   
  
“Ready for bed?” he asked as he got up to hang up her towel.   
  
Molly shifted herself back from the edge where she was seated so that she could lie down properly. She exhaled gratefully when she felt her head hit the pillow and shut her eyes momentarily.   
  
“I guess you are then,” said Sherlock, smiling as he returned to join her.  
  
They had each turned down the lamp beside them, dimming the room to a soft glow. Automatically, the pair turned to face each other, smiling in the low light.   
  
“I shouldn’t keep saying it,” Molly said quietly, “But we’ll miss you.”  
  
Sherlock could only smile gently in response, reaching to take Molly’s hand in his. He began to take note of her fingertips and the way they felt, slowly keeping track of the way his skin felt as their fingers moved closer and eventually intertwined. There was still so much about her he wanted to experience, to remember and to _have_. When their hands were held firmly together, he realised that he was no longer able to keep the smile up on his face. He dropped his gaze to focus on their hands instead of her soft, warm eyes that, even in the low light, he could see.   
  
“You’re right,” whispered Sherlock, “You shouldn’t keep saying it…”  
  
He finally looked back up at her and tried his best to smile again.   
  
“In case I hadn’t said it before, or hadn’t made it clear,” Sherlock continued, “I am sorry, Molly, for everything.”  
“Sherlock Holmes,” said Molly firmly, “You no longer need to apologise—”  
“But I have been so _horrible_ , Molly,” he interrupted, “Because I _am_ horr—”  
  
Instinctively, like those years before when they had first shared a bed in Mrs Hudson’s study, Molly leaned forward but this time, planted a soft kiss on his lips. When their mouths parted, Molly kept close to him, touching her forehead against his.   
  
“In case I hadn’t made it clear,” Molly whispered fiercely, “You are forgiven, Sherlock Holmes, for everything.”  
“Am I?” he whispered back, gripping her hand tightly.   
“You helped me bring Scott safely into this world, Sherlock,” Molly said, “If I didn’t forgive you, I’d be—”  
“Mycroft?” joked Sherlock.  
“An ice queen…” Molly replied, with a little laugh, “But close enough.”  
  
They paused, grinning at their little joke and continued to hold hands.   
  
“I think you should sleep,” said Sherlock, “Your blink pattern tells me you’re terribly exhausted.”  
“And blink patterns, don’t lie,” Molly said, yawning in agreement.  
“To bed, then,” said Sherlock, kissing her gently on the forehead.   
“See you in the morning,” she murmured as she turned to curl up against him.   
“See you in the morning,” he whispered back, wrapping his arms around her for the very last time.

* * *

It was late afternoon and Mycroft was seated at his desk in one of his secret residences in Japan, poring over a few documents that had been sent in from London.   
  
“Flag this one,” he said, handing some papers over to an aide, “I sense trouble brewing.”  
“Certainly, sir,” the aide replied, taking the documents.   
“Send word to London to increase security in all prisons and sanatoriums,” continued Mycroft.   
“Of course. Will that be all, sir?”  
“For now.”  
“Thank you, sir. I’ll get on to it right away.”  
  
When the door shut, Mycroft let out a small sigh. He never liked it when he had these premonitions, but as it seemed minor for now, he was able to briefly brush them aside. Mycroft was just about to return a call to the head of another international agency when he was interrupted by one of his officers.   
  
“Sir, someone here to see you,” said the uniformed lady.   
“ _Someone_?” repeated Mycroft, raising an eyebrow, “Not a very reassuring thing to hear from a member of my security—”  
“They didn’t check for weapons either,” came the voice of Ayumi, “But it’s because they know I’m not here to kill you.”  
“Oh…”  
“May I sit down?” she asked.  
“Where are my manners, please, have a seat…” said Mycroft, rising from his seat and gesturing to a chair across from him.   
  
Ayumi gave him a quick smile and sat in her allotted seat with her back ramrod straight and her eyes bright and alert. Mycroft strode over to a small side table, holding Ayumi’s gaze as he gestured to the decanter.   
  
“It’s not our whisky…” he began, “But would you fancy a glass?”  
  
There came a bell-like laugh from Ayumi and Mycroft too could not help but crack a small smile. _Their_ whisky. Certainly a rarely used pronoun in conversation with her, not even in their intimate spaces.  
  
“I would, but you’re at work,” she said, crossing her arms as she decided to lean back into her seat.   
“Are _you_?” he asked, pouring her a glass regardless.   
“I’m never _not_ at work,” she answered, “But I have far less rules than you do.”  
“Then a glass for you it is,” Mycroft remarked, pouring her a glass.   
  
Mycroft walked over to serve Ayumi her drink. This time, it was she who ensured her fingers touched his when he handed her the drink. When she saw the slight dilation in his pupils and the few blinks that were a little too rapid, she could not help but chuckle. Still, she made sure their contact did not last too long and retrieved her drink, thereby breaking their contact. The last thing she wanted was to short-circuit the greatest mind she knew - and admired.   
  
“Are you all right?” she asked, fighting a smile as she gazed at him from above the top of her glass.   
“I’m…fine,” he replied, exhaling sharply as he returned to his seat.   
“And your brother?” asked Ayumi, taking another sip. “Is he also…fine?”  
“He claims to be,” answered Mycroft, “Or at least he’s working towards it. As per his request I sent him a huge dossier on the current horror story we’ve got going on in London.”  
“Those decapitations?”   
“The very same.”  
“They _are_ ghastly…” Ayumi continued, “Perfect choice for your brother.”  
“This may be slightly off-topic, but I’ve always wondered, why do you never refer to him as ‘Sherlock’?” asked Mycroft, leaning forward.   
“Well…” Ayumi said calmly, taking another sip, “It’s the same reason as to why you never call me ‘Ayumi’…”  
  
Her answer caught him by surprise, but frankly, it should not have. Clearing his throat, Mycroft clasped his hands together and placed them in front of him on his desk.   
  
“Have you come to…pick a fight?” asked Mycroft calmly.   
“No, not at all,” said Ayumi, setting her glass down, “I came solely to ask about your brother.”  
“Then why—”  
“You’re the one who asked the personal question,” she cut in, smiling wryly at him. “In your own words, _off-topic._ ”  
“Yes…” said Mycroft, sinking back into his seat with a sigh, “I apologise.”  
“Please don’t,” she replied with another quick smile, “So, should we get back on-topic?”  
“Yes, please.”  
  
The next hour or so had been spent discussing Sherlock, but more specifically, what _Molly_ had discussed with Mycroft in his meeting with her the previous day. Ayumi listened, amused but not surprised at what she was hearing. She knew both parties very well, but knew Molly more than Molly probably knew herself. Besides, if there was anything she and Mycroft had in common, it was their perfect reading of the people around them, especially those closest. Whilst it saddened her to know the separation was still going ahead, it was still pleasant relief to hear how sentiments had changed in the course of Sherlock and Molly’s time together in Japan. In fact, change was probably the wrong word. The sentiments between the two had always been there. The change was how they were being expressed and acted on. This departure from each other was a perfect example.   
  
“So, no tearful farewells?” asked Ayumi, gently tapping the glass in her hand.   
“Sherlock has no tear ducts,” said Mycroft with a smirk.  
“Nor have you,” she remarked, pointing at him.  
“I cannot deny that,” he said, smirking again.   
“Will you do anything?” she continued, “I mean, you’re not going to just let them go—”  
“What I have been asked to do, I will do,” he interjected, “But their decision is to be honoured and I will do no more.”  
“You’re far too honourable for my liking, Mycroft,”   
“And yet, you seem to like me very much,” he cut in, eyeing her with a little sparkle in his eyes.   
“Did you have a drink while I wasn’t looking?” asked Ayumi, smirking as she downed the last bit of whisky, “That’s _quite_ a statement, Mycroft Holmes.”  
“But is it true?” he asked, his gaze firmly locked on her.   
  
Setting her glass down, Ayumi got up slowly from her seat and adjusted her jacket. She gazed boldly back at Mycroft but was unable to resist a smile.   
  
“Why do you always ask me what you already know?” she asked.  
  
Ayumi then gave him a quick little bow of her head and turned to exit his office.   
  
“Good luck with tonight,” she said, turning back one last time to look at him, before reaching for the doorknob and letting herself out. 

* * *

Molly stood in the middle of the living room with Scott in her arms. For some reason, Molly found herself unable to sit down as she waited for Sherlock to get ready. He had gone to take a shower whilst she fed and settled the baby and now that she was done, she ended up pacing the room, ignoring the sight of his coat that hung on a rack by the door. It was strange how the moment she knew it was going to be the last time she was ever going to see his coat hanging there, she refused to look at it anymore. Instead, she busied herself by counting the soft wisps of hair on Scott’s scalp and, when she had run out of hairs, did her best to count his lashes.   
  
“What _are_ you doing?” asked Sherlock, emerging from their room. He had on a crisp shirt and dark trousers, as was his usual attire, and smelt rather nicely of Molly’s lavender shampoo.   
“Oh, just…” she smiled sheepishly back, “I don’t know.”  
“There’s nothing wrong with him, is there?” said Sherlock, a little worried.   
“No, he’s fine,” she answered, “I was just…counting his hairs.”  
“126,” he said as he reached for his jacket, “But that was a few days ago. Not as accurate now, probably.”  
  
Molly laughed, relieved that she had not been called out for being silly but also in amusement that she should have known he would have done such a thing.   
  
“Right. So, are we doing this?” he said, striding towards the coat rack.   
“Hmm? Oh…uh, yes…” she answered, unknowingly clutching Scott a little tighter to herself.   
  
Sherlock cleared his throat as he began to get ready, sliding his coat on and wrapping his scarf around his neck.   
  
“So, I’m off to get…” it was harder than he thought, but he had to try, “I’m going to get dinner. The usual?”  
  
Molly inhaled deeply and did her best to smile. It felt more like a muscle strain than a smile, but at least it was holding her tears back.  
  
“Yes, please…” she whispered, not wanting her voice to break, “Just the usual.”  
“The usual it is,” he answered, smiling affectionately at her.   
  
Sherlock had promised he would not do anything out of the ordinary and that they would simply keep their parting as natural as when he would normally leave to buy their dinner, but the glistening eyes behind Molly’s strained smile was too much for him to bear. He strode over to her, gently kissing her on the top of her forehead, and then kissing Scott too on the top of those 126 hairs.   
  
“See you later…” he whispered, holding her tight as a single tear slid down his cheek and slipped into her hair.   
“Yes,” she whispered in return, “See you later…”  
  
With that, Sherlock stepped back, took a deep breath and gave her one last brave smile, before turning to walk out of the door, both of them knowing full well that he would not be stepping back in again.

* * *

The car ride to the airport was nothing short of torturous. The weight in his heart was impossibly heavy and had it not been for years of practice, Sherlock would have reached the airport with rather tear-stained cheeks and swollen eyes. When he arrived, he made his way to the private runway where one of Mycroft’s jets would take him back to London. He had made this request knowing full well that he would have zero patience to deal with any other human beings. A plane full of regular passengers would certainly have detonated the ticking time bomb that was Sherlock Holmes. With his single leather bag in hand, he boarded the narrow steps that led to the entrance of the jet and was greeted by a uniformed crew-member. Sherlock merely nodded in response and made his way into the aircraft.   
  
Sherlock was clearly still distracted, for when he set his bag down and slumped into his luxurious leather seat, he failed to notice his brother, seated calmly across a table from him. It was only when Mycroft sat up in his seat and tapped his fingers against the top of his umbrella cane did Sherlock snap from his stupor. The sight of his brother alone was all it took for Sherlock’s anger to reach its peak. Fuming, the detective glared at his brother and did his best not to shout at him.   
  
“What on earth are you doing here?” Sherlock muttered fiercely, “You do realise the irony of keeping my flight free of aggravating human beings, only to put the one that aggravates me most before me…”  
“You only agitate yourself, Sherlock,” replied Mycroft coolly.   
  
Sherlock huffed and leant back in his seat, refusing to look back at his brother.   
  
“If it’s any consolation…” Mycroft began.  
“Yes?” Sherlock snapped.   
“I won’t be joining you on this flight back to London.”  
“Good.”  
“However—”  
“Now what?”  
“Your interruptions prolong my presence here, Sherlock…”  
“Fine. Speak.”  
“I have come to bring you something.”  
  
Mycroft’s information did not seem to have any effect on the sulking detective. With a shrug and a nonchalant smirk, Mycroft reached into his coat pocket and pulled out an envelope. It was not big, but it seemed to have an object in it. On the front, Sherlock’s name was written in black ink in a handwriting that the detective would instantly recognise.   
  
“Well, then,” said Mycroft, placing the envelope on the small table that divided them,  
“Have a safe flight.”  
  
Having completed his mission, Mycroft exited the aircraft to where his car waited below on the tarmac and was speedily driven away.   
  
Now that his brother had gone, the same crew-member came to inform Sherlock of their imminent take off. Before long, the whining of the engines could be heard. After he had put on his seatbelt, Sherlock permitted himself to eye the envelope on the table. He eyed it warily at first, knowing his brother was full of gimmicks and Sherlock was simply not in the emotional or mental capacity to handle any more theatrics. However, when his eye caught the handwriting, he moved like lightning to grab it, tearing the envelope open. Sherlock poured the contents out and they were puzzling. One was a small object wrapped in a small paper packet and the other was a smaller paper envelope. He pulled out the note and read it, his eyes widening as he devoured each word.   
  
_Sherlock,_  
_I trust you are reading this as the plane is taking off._  
  
He paused to take note of his environment and indeed, the jet was rumbling along the runway and was about to ascend.   
  
_You must be wondering why I’m writing you this letter.  
Well, it’s because I know you, Sherlock Holmes. _  
_I know you would leave something very important behind, something I know you would regret not having._  
_And I was right, wasn’t I?_  
_I found them tucked neatly among Scott’s baby documents._  
_So, I went ahead and gave you my copies._  
  
Sherlock put the letter down and picked the smaller paper envelope up. He lifted the tab and poured out a row of familiar photos. It was the ones they had taken at the photo booth. When he saw their faces, of them all together, he could not help but smile. Molly was right. He _did_ want to keep them. It suddenly dawned on him that a single good memory was still better than nothing.  
  
_You know, Sherlock, everything has changed, and yet nothing has._  
_You will always be important to me, and now, to Scott._  
_I won’t ever let him forget that you are the reason he came to me alive and well._  
_You came for us, when we had been left behind._  
  
_And speaking of things left behind, I think I’ve lost something and it’s ended up in your possession._  
  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow as he shifted his gaze to the tiny, paper-wrapped object.  
  
_It must have slipped in accidentally when I was writing this or preparing the photos for you._  
  
Again, Sherlock put the letter down and gingerly picked the object up. Slowly, but carefully, he tore off the tape that sealed it, pulling back the bits of paper to reveal a single ruby-drop earring. Sherlock gasped quietly, tipping the awfully familiar earring out from its paper cradle into the palm of his hand.   
  
_I don’t know if you remember the ruby earrings I wore the time we last met in London, but I seem to have misplaced one side of it._  
  
He chuckled quietly to himself as he lifted the earring, watching the ruby catch the light in each of its perfectly cut facets.   
  
_If you do see it, could you hold on to it for me?_  
_I shouldn’t want to lose something so precious and beautiful.  
  
Until then, take good care.   
Molly   
  
P.S. You might want to take a look inside your bag  
  
_ Carefully, he set both the letter and the earring down and reached for his bag. He unzipped it and was surprised to see his grey scarf, the one she had fixed for him all those years back, packed right at the top. How she had managed to get it into his bag without him realising was quite the feat. He smirked to himself, impressed yet again by this amazing woman.   
  
Attached to the scarf was another note from Molly. He smiled as he unfolded it to read, finding strange comfort at the mere sight of her handwriting. _  
  
It might get cold on your cases, especially if you’re going to catch this London decapitator. So here’s your scarf, the one you let me use in Japan.   
  
_ Sherlock reached for the scarf, unfolding it to search for the initials she had so intricately sewn. He ran his fingers over the cursive font in gold thread and for some reason, felt his heart beat a little faster as the weight in his chest seemed to lighten. _  
  
Keep warm, stay safe…  
  
_ At this moment, Sherlock was sure his heart was going to leap out of his chest. _  
  
And take care of the scarf…   
For I should like to borrow it again someday.  
  
xx Molly_


	36. Chapter 36

“He’s _done_ it, Scott!”   
  
Molly clapped in delight as she turned from her laptop and moved to lift her smiling baby from his play area next to her desk. With Scott in her arms, she spun about the room as though waltzing with her baby before settling him back on her lap as she returned to her seat. It was nice to be in their own space again, after having been at Ayumi’s secret housing for so long.    
  
“You see that?” Molly exclaimed as she pointed excitedly to the big, bold headline on her laptop screen. Scott merely gurgled in response as his chubby fingers tried to grasp at the animated advertisement banners at the top of the news website she was reading. With Scott just a few weeks’ shy of turning a year old, he was quite an active little thing and soon tried sliding off her lap to get back to his play things. Molly let him and made sure he settled safely on his play mat before turning back to read the article.   
  
Sherlock Holmes had done it again. It was almost two years now since he had apprehended those ‘Brompton Body Snatchers*’. He was then able to connect their activity to the frightening wave of London decapitators, the files of which she had seen when Mycroft had brought them to Japan. Despite having apprehended the perpetrators of both crimes, Sherlock had sensed something amiss and had probed deeper into the links between both cases. It had taken him a few months but eventually, he had uncovered a massive black market operation that had been covertly trading in human limbs and organs.    
  
“This is _incredible_ …” murmured Molly to herself. “I don’t know how he did it.”  
  
Just then, the little bell icon at the corner of her laptop screen began to bounce up and down in sync with the soft chiming sound that accompanied it.   
  
“I guess we’ll find out now,” she said, smiling excitedly to herself.   
  
To everyone’s surprise, except perhaps Mycroft’s, the both of them had kept in touch. It was not often, but regular enough. Their contact was mostly via video calls. This had been Sherlock’s suggestion, reminding Molly that until Scott could start texting him personally, how else was he going to see that the boy was all right?

It made Molly smile to think of how much the detective still thought of her son, or _their_ son, as she liked to think sometimes. It was not often that Sherlock barged into her universe without causing some sort of irreparable damage or at least cause some massive inconvenience. Yet, it was when she had least expected him to intervene that he had shown up and quite literally saved the day. There was not a day that went by that Molly did not catch glimpses of Sherlock in Scott. She found herself laughing at the impossibility of seeing the man who had no part to play in the conception of her son appear so prominently in the boy’s every facet. 

 _I think he looks rather like you,_ she had told him once, prompting a grunt of disbelief from the detective. _Either you’re running a fever or you’re slowly going mad_ , he had replied, but not without giving her a half-smile, pleased that she had even thought so. In most of their conversations, however, Molly would find the detective beaming the moment she had Scott on her knee. Sherlock would almost forget she was there and would begin conversing solely with the baby, trying to catch his eye and desperate to incite any reaction from him. Their video calls were always such a joy. Molly even managed to catch John laughing in the background once as he watched his best friend attempt to teach the barely six-month old Scott Hooper to count.  

It was about two o’clock in the afternoon in Tokyo when Sherlock’s call came in, which meant it was six in the morning in London. Since the detective hardly slept, the time difference between London and Tokyo really was not that much of an issue.

“You’re up early,” teased Molly, smiling when she saw his face appear on her screen.   
“I am indeed,” the detective replied, “I’ve been up since yesterday.”  
“Wedding planning or saving London?” asked Molly, in reference to John and Mary’s nuptials in May.   
“We went to look at fabric yesterday,” Sherlock replied, a little too enthusiastically.  
“So soon after your case?” Molly asked, amused.    
“We needed to pick a colour for the bridesmaids, and we decided on lilac…”  
“ _We_?” Molly remarked with a laugh. “Who’s getting married here?”  
“I can’t help it if I have a far better eye for these things, can I?” said Sherlock in defence.  
“It’s not about being better or correct, Sherlock, it’s about what John and Mary want…”  
“And what they want is my far superior, expert opinion,” Sherlock cut in. 

Molly simply shook her head and chuckled, causing him to chuckle at his end of the screen on his side of the world. 

“Anyway, enough about my adventures,” he said.   
“No, wait,” said Molly, “It is precisely your adventures I want to hear about, the non-wedding ones, of course…”

“Oh. The corpse markets?”  
“Yes!”  
“Not yet,” he said.  
“Oh, sorry. I forgot,” Molly remarked, remembering suddenly, “The usual?”  
“Yes, please,” he replied with a smile.   
“Coming right up…”

Swivelling her chair to the side, Molly bent to pick Scott up again from his play area and sat her on his knee. This time, instead of sliding off to rush back to his toys, the boy’s eyes adjusted slowly to the face on the screen, before lighting up in delight. Scott was beginning to recognise Sherlock a lot quicker now, and it delighted them both. 

“Hello Scott,” Sherlock said with delight. 

From the smile on Sherlock’s face and the happiness in his voice, Molly knew she would not be hearing about the mystery of the corpse markets. Not this afternoon, at least. 

* * *

 

“When will you be moving out?” asked Mycroft, his back turned away from the door as he studied his whisky decanters.   
“Have you ever once said _hello_ to me?” John remarked, smirking by the door.   
  
John walked into the ornate but eerily quiet room and settled himself into the familiar copper-coloured armchair in Mycroft’s secret Diogene’s office. He looked up at Mycroft and waited as the head of Britain’s secret service poured him a glass of whisky.  
  
“Thanks very much,” said John, receiving his glass.  
“So, have you found a place to settle down yet?” asked Mycroft, seating himself in his own armchair.   
“You probably already have the address,” John said with a laugh, “so why are you asking me?”  
“You’re right, I do know that you and Alicia –  I’m sorry, Mary have purchased a small little house in a lovely little neighbourhood…”  
“And so?”  
“And so, I would like to know when you intend to leave Baker Street,” continued Mycroft, repeating his earlier question. “More specifically, I’d like to know when you intend to vacate your room at Baker Street.”  
“I didn’t know you hated me that much, Mycroft,” John said, chuckling into his whisky class.   
  
Mycroft smiled and swirled his own glass gently, studying the bronze whirlpool inside it.   
  
“You have been my brother’s saviour on so many occasions, I would never disregard you,” said Mycroft calmly, “It’s just, well…”  
“Well what?”  
“Let’s just say, I will very much be needing that space,” answered Mycroft, offering John a quick smile before taking another sip of his drink. 

* * *

Normally, there was nothing more delightful than a call from DI Lestrade. It usually meant a body had turned up somewhere or some wonderfully rare or secretive thing had been stolen. This morning, however, it had only served to cut short his time with Scott.   
  
“I have to go,” said Sherlock, finally looking up from the boy to address Molly.  
“That’s all right,” she replied with a smile, “There’s always next time.”  
“Indeed,” he said with a sigh, “But for now, duty calls.”  
“Good, you should go,” Molly remarked, “Don’t want you getting sloppy over a baby. What would your brother say?”  
“Well,” said Sherlock with a shrug, “He’s never met Scott…”  
  
They exchanged a few more words and after a few overly-enthusiastic waves, Sherlock and Scott (and Molly) said goodbye. The detective smiled pensively, clicking shut the window to their video session.   
  
“There’s always next time,” he said, repeating Molly’s words.   
  
Often, Sherlock found himself marvelling at the fact that a ‘next time’ _did_ exist for them. He never forgot the fact that all of this – having been sent to Japan by his brother; being by Molly’s side during her pregnancy and labour; having a chance at being a family unit with them both – was one incredible second chance people like him never deserved. Yet, he had been given it all. While it troubled him that they were back to being far apart, what little space he dared offer in his heart now had them as occupants, and that, to him, was more than enough.   
  
Molly too marvelled at the fact that she still _had_ space in her heart for Sherlock. Having been so determined to close off that chapter and to live life focusing on Scott’s and her happiness, it seemed beautifully strange that she still had a place for him. Everything felt so natural; knowing she could contact him at any time, knowing that she had left him two valuable keepsakes, and knowing and seeing that he was such an integral part of Scott’s life. While Molly had long made peace with the fact that Scott would live a life without his father, she found it harder and harder to imagine Scott’s life without the man who had brought him into this world.   
  
“What do we do, Scott?” Molly murmured, kissing the top of her squirming baby’s head. “Should you and mummy get on an aeroplane then?”  
  
The baby offered no response, of course, other than trying to wriggle back down to his play mat. Molly chuckled as she put him down carefully, kissing him one more time on the cheek. _Yes, it is different without him, isn’t it?_ she thought to herself as she stared in amusement at her son reaching for his toys. She was not expecting to feel Sherlock’s absence, and yet here she was, wishing things had stayed the way they were a year ago.   
  
“Anyway, back to work,” she said, settling back at her desk. Glancing quickly at the bottom of her computer screen, Molly smiled as she caught sight of their photo booth photos which she had stuck on the screen’s bottom edge.   
  
“I’ll think about you later…” she said quietly to herself, averting her eyes from their smiles and back to her reports. 

* * *

Sherlock had made a few more calls to Lestrade just to talk over a few more details before heading out. When he had determined the order of crime scenes he was to visit, he walked over to his mantelpiece where the skull he kept was displayed. Peering carefully at it, he checked to make sure that Molly’s ruby earring was still hanging nicely in the eye socket. That had been its original home from when he had stolen the earring the first time. Now, he had the one she had given him placed exactly where the first one had been.   
  
A quick smile appeared on the detective’s lips as he turned to get his scarf. He reached automatically for the grey one Molly had slipped into his bag. A few years ago it would have irked him that it meant anything to him at all. Now, he could not see himself without it, for it was the closest reminder of the fact that he and Molly were no longer leading separate lives, and that in spite of this distance, they were somehow together.   
  
Suddenly, his thoughts were interrupted by a voice he did not particularly enjoy and certainly did not want to hear.   
  
“I see you’re on your way to Scotland Yard…” said the voice that grated on his nerves.   
  
Sherlock could not tell if he was more irritated at the fact that his brother had caught him by surprise or if it had merely been the sound of his voice.   
  
“I was having such a good day,” Sherlock muttered in return, glaring icily at his brother.   
  
Mycroft remained all smiles as usual, settling himself into an armchair and blissfully ignoring the fact that his brother was quite literally just about to set foot out of the door.   
  
“Well?” asked Sherlock sharply, tugging his scarf around his neck, “What have you come here for?”  
“Oh, just ignore me—”  
“Easily.”  
“Off you pop to the Yard,” said Mycroft calmly, “I have some business here to attend to.”  
“Business?” hissed Sherlock, “This is _my_ flat.”  
“Of which the rent is partially paid for by me,” remarked Mycroft, “Your unsteady income, so to speak, makes you an unreliable tenant.”  
  
Rolling his eyes, Sherlock had decided he had had enough. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep or perhaps the interruption of his time with Scott, but Sherlock’s patience was running rather low.  
  
“I won’t be interfering with your ‘territory’ anyway,” continued Mycroft.  
“You wouldn’t dare,” Sherlock scoffed.  
“I’m here to see John’s room.”  
  
That certainly was unexpected. What did his brother and John have planned?  
  
“Whatever for?” asked Sherlock, turning to face his brother properly for the first time.  
“As you know, he’s moving out.”  
“Yes.”  
“And I intend to use the space,” said Mycroft with a quick smile, “He’s agreed and I’m here to begin preparations.”  
“Preparations? You’re not—”  
“Moving in?” Mycroft said with a laugh, “I’m not clinically insane, Sherlock.”  
“You’re wasting my time,” Sherlock said with gritted teeth, “What do you want John’s room for?”  
“I’m here on mother’s business,” answered Mycroft matter-of-factly.   
“ _Mother_? Our mother?”  
“Have we another?” Mycroft asked, smirking.   
  
The mere mention of their mother was enough to make Sherlock march out of the flat once and for all. Having his brother barge in with frustratingly cryptic conversation was more than he could bear. Knowing now that this was something involving his mother meant Sherlock wanted nothing more to do with whatever it was they had planned.   
  
“Do what you want, or what mummy wants,” Sherlock shouted as he made his way down the stairs, “I’m not getting involved…”  
  
The door downstairs slammed shut as Sherlock finally exited the flat. Mycroft smirked to himself and got up from his armchair.     
  
“Good,” Mycroft said quietly to himself, “That’s exactly where I need you to be. _Not involved_.”  
  
With a sharp exhale, Mycroft swung his umbrella forward as he made his way to Sherlock’s former flat-mate’s room. He pushed the door open with the end of his umbrella, waving away the slight clouds of dust from the room’s infrequent use of late.     
  
“This will do splendidly,” Mycroft said, pleased, walking in.  
  
He surveyed the thin patches of dust over the unused sheets and the abandoned desk. Walking up to the windows, he stared out of them then back into the room, surveying its space and its layout.   
  
“We should be done just in time,” Mycroft remarked as he pulled his mobile phone out to make a few calls. 

* * *

The comings and goings of Mycroft Holmes at 221B Baker Street had been increasing in the past weeks. Sometimes, there were various teams of people who would visit the flat with him. They would arrive at 221B and then proceed straight to John’s former room. Of course, Mycroft had made sure these visitations occured whenever his brother was out. Surprisingly, on the few occasions that Sherlock _had_ been in, the younger brother, who wanted even less to do with his mother than with his brother, deliberately paid no attention whatsoever to whatever it was that was happening.   
  
“How’ve you been?” John asked Sherlock. The detective had stopped by his best friend’s clinic for a few medical samples when John took the opportunity to have some non-wedding related conversation with his best friend.  
“The same,” he answered, studying the tiny bottles he had been given. “This case isn’t as boring as the last, but I expect I’ll be handing in its case report by suppertime”.   
“Has Mycroft been in?” asked John.“Been where?”“Baker Street.”  
“Maybe. I’ve not really noticed…”  
“He mentioned something about using my room,” said John, “Any idea what he's up to?”  
“Hmm, something about our mother…” replied Sherlock nonchalantly. “Which means I neither know nor care.”  
“Your mother? What, is she coming to stay or something?”  
  
The detective whipped his head violently around to face John, mortified at his friend’s last statement.   
  
“What?” asked John, frowning at his friend.   
“She’s _not_ coming to stay,” Sherlock declared confidently.   
“Okay, but what would Mycroft…or your mother want my old room for then?”  
  
Sherlock shrugged and began packing away the samples he had come for.   
  
“As long as she stays out of mine, I don’t care what yours is being used for,” answered the detective, before sweeping out of John’s consultation room. 

* * *

“Well, you’re certainly confident about this, aren’t you?” said Ayumi, her phone clipped between her ear and her shoulder as she pottered about her kitchen. Mycroft had, as usual, called her at some unearthly hour and had consulted her about his latest plans.   
  
“My inclinations have been correct so far,” came Mycroft’s voice.   
“Indeed they have,” said Ayumi with a smile.   
“Your water’s boiled, by the way.”  
  
A second later, the electric kettle sounded its chime to indicate that the water had indeed boiled.   
  
“You’re not even _in_ the room, Mycroft…” Ayumi chuckled, pouring the boiled water over her tea leaves.   
“I was just trying to prove my point,” he said, smiling on his end of the phone.   
“You know you don’t have to,”   
“Well, it seems to amuse you…”  
“We have time for amusement?” Ayumi asked, smirking.   
“I’m…reconsidering that,”   
“Let’s sort your brother out first, all right?” said Ayumi with a small laugh.   
  
His call had been a pleasant surprise, as had been his plans at Baker Street. It amused her greatly the amount of time and emotion he seemed to be investing in his brother’s happiness. Mycroft had had the inkling that it was possible for things to change and had thus decided to ensure that they would. The Baker Street preparations had only been the beginning. There were more things to be done, just as there were a lot more things he could not be sure of, in spite of what his inclinations told him.   
  
“Do you think it will happen?” asked Mycroft.  
“What happened to the confidence from before?” Ayumi remarked, carrying her tea to her sitting room.   
“Unlike the chemistry of boiling water, Ayumi, Sherlock and, indeed, Molly, are far from predictable.”  
“I think I can help,” said Ayumi, taking a sip of her tea.   
“You can?”  
“I imagine Molly simply needs a little push,” she remarked contemplatively, “And I think I know how.”

* * *

The very next day, Ayumi hopped into one of her cars and instructed the driver to take her to Molly’s new apartment. She had not been to visit Molly since the housewarming at Molly’s new place. Molly had moved soon after Sherlock had left, wanting to start afresh now that he was back in London. When Molly’s apartment block came into view, Ayumi got out of the car and made her way upstairs.   
  
Molly had been expecting Ayumi, so when she heard the chime of her doorbell she picked Scott up and rushed to the door. The two friends beamed at one another and exchanged hugs with Scott nestled nicely between them as they did so.   
  
“He’s certainly growing, isn’t he!” Ayumi said, planting a quick kiss on the baby’s cheek.  
“He’s also _moving_ a lot…unstoppable,” said Molly with a laugh.   
  
After settling Scott into his play area, the two friends moved to the sofa just beside it and sat down. Molly poured the tea and offered a cup to Ayumi.   
  
“So, why this sudden enthusiastic visit?” asked Molly.   
“I’ve not seen the both of you in a long time,” Ayumi replied, “I wanted to see how you both were doing.”  
“Well, we’re doing rather well for ourselves,” said Molly, glancing affectionately across to where Scott was playing.   
“Good, good…” Ayumi said, nodding, before sipping her tea.   
  
Molly eyed her friend carefully and small smile grew on her face.   
  
“You’re not just here for a visit…are you?” Molly asked, “We _have_ been friends for some time, you know, Ayumi. I can see when you’re bursting to tell me something.”  
  
The two friends paused to laugh at Molly’s words. Just as Ayumi prided herself in knowing Molly inside out, she sometimes failed to realise her friend was equally astute.   
  
“You should join my team, you know,” said Ayumi with a laugh, “Though I’m sure Mycroft would fight me hard to have you on his.”  
“I’m happy right where I am, thank you,” chuckled Molly, “Wouldn’t want the two of you fighting over me.”  
  
Ayumi set her tea down and sat up a little straighter. Looking up at Molly, she gazed deeply into her friend’s eyes, smiling warmly at her. Molly could not help but smile in return, but tilted her head a little, wondering what her friend really wanted to say.   
  
“You said, you’re happy right where you are…” Ayumi began.  
“I am,” Molly said.   
“And I believe this, I do. It’s just, I feel there’s _more_.”  
“More?” asked Molly, raising an eyebrow.   
“Yes. More that you could be…I can’t think of the word. Embracing? Reaching for?”  
“You sound like a cheesy advertisement,” Molly remarked with a laugh.   
  
Before Ayumi could speak any further, Molly stopped her friend by putting her own tea down and reaching for Ayumi’s hands. She held them firmly and looked up at Ayumi.  
  
“It’s been almost a year, hasn’t it?” said Molly quietly.   
“Yes, it has,” answered Ayumi, smiling gently, “Scott’s going to be one in a matter of weeks after all.”  
“You mentioned… _more_ , and you know, you’re right…”  
“How so?”  
“I want… _more._ And I’m beginning to feel that it’s okay to want more.”  
“Okay…”  
“I’m happy here with Scott, with you, with my work at the lab…”  
  
Molly paused to smile pensively, as though confronting her own thoughts honestly for the first time.   
  
“And even though he was the opposite of happiness before,” Molly continued, “this past year has proven that…it _isn’t_ impossible to love Sherlock Holmes and be happy.”  
“It’s more than possible,” Ayumi remarked, “It’s already happened.”  
“Yes…it has,” said Molly, glancing once more at her baby then back to her friend.   
“So what will you do?”  
“I will continue to choose happiness, _my_ happiness,” said Molly resolutely.   
“Well, what do you have in mind?” asked Ayumi.   
  
Letting go of Ayumi’s hands, Molly rose from where she sat and went to pick Scott up. She lifted her son up into her arms and kissed him softly on his temple. Carrying him, she returned to her seat and sat him on her lap, wrapping her arms tightly around him.   
  
“We’re going to London,” said Molly, looking down at her son before looking back up at Ayumi. “And we’re going to look for Sherlock Holmes.”

* * *

It was far too late at night for anyone to be ringing their doorbell. Yet, here it was, ringing away like an alarm gone mad at midnight.  
  
“What in _heaven’s_ name…” mumbled John as he flipped the bedside lamp on and stumbled out of bed.  
“Maybe it’s Sherlock or something…” yawned Mary, who, whilst still in bed, seemed unfazed by the rude awakening.   
  
The couple was exhausted, what with their wedding only a week away. It was a beautiful night in May, perfect for a good night’s sleep which was why the last thing they needed was for their sleep to be interrupted. John headed downstairs first, rubbing the back of his neck as he let out another yawn. Mary followed soon after and watched as her fiancé opened the door.  
  
“John.” greeted Mycroft in his typical cool, calm voice. “Mary.”  
“Has something happened?” John asked, squinting slightly as his eyes adjusted to the street lighting outside.   
“I have a question to ask,” said Mycroft.   
  
John heaved a sigh and cricked his neck, trying to keep his composure. Mary merely folded her arms and appeared infinitely calmer than her husband-to-be.   
  
“Did you have to ask it _now_? At midnight, standing at our front door?” John remarked somewhat acerbically.   
“Well, I suppose I could have waited until it was light but I like to be certain of things as soon as possible.” Mycroft replied matter-of-factly.    
“What is it, Mycroft?” asked Mary, sensing John was now a little too angry to speak.   
  
Mycroft cleared his throat and placed both hands atop the polished handle of his umbrella. His composure, despite having intruded at this unearthly hour, was most irksome. Still, John and Mary had the sense to entertain him and waited for him to answer.   
  
“Have you room for one more in your bridal party?” asked Mycroft Holmes, head of the British Secret Service and one of the most powerful government officials in the country.   
  
The couple stared back at him, wide-eyed and puzzled. It was John who regained his composure first and replied.   
  
“Well, Mycroft, if we can find a dress for a man of your height—”“I appreciate the thought but it is not me I am referring to…” Mycroft interjected, just short of rolling his eyes.   
  
Stepping to one side, Mycroft turned his body so the Watson’s could see the polished black car parked just behind Mycroft on their street. Mycroft gave a single nod to whomever it was in the car and when he had done so, the window to the passenger seat began to roll down.   
  
A gasp escaped John whilst Mary beamed and clapped her hands in delight. From the window, the tired but happy face of Molly Hooper appeared, giving the couple a gentle wave. Beside her in a baby carseat was Scott, sleeping soundly.   
  
“Sherlock’s going to be…” John paused to find the right word, “he’s going to be _ecstatic_.”  
  
Mycroft laughed gently and tapped his fingers on the umbrella handle.   
  
“Well, that’s what I’m hoping anyway,” Mycroft remarked, turning back to smile at Molly.   
  
Molly smiled back and mouthed a silent _sorry_ to the couple, pointing at her sleeping baby as to why she could not come out to greet them in person. They nodded, understanding and unable to wipe the smiles off their own faces.   
  
“So, have you another lilac dress for Molly or will I have to summon my tailors?” said Mycroft, returning his attention to the couple.   
  
At his words, the couple turned to face each other before bursting into chuckles.   
  
“For these two idiots…” John began, beaming widely at Molly again, “we’ll make it happen, don’t you worry.”

::  
  
*See chapter 23 for first mention of the _Brompton Body Snatchers_  


* * *

 


	37. Chapter 37

It was just two days before the 18th of May, the day of John and Mary’s wedding and by some miracle, Mary had managed to get Molly’s dress done in time. At first, Molly had been hesitant to be part of Mary’s bridal party but Mary had insisted, saying Sherlock’s expression would be worth all of this. The thought of what Sherlock would think or say sent both excitement and terror through Molly. Buying a ticket home and wrapping everything up in Japan (with plenty of Ayumi and Mycroft’s help of course) had been the single most impulsive thing she had done.   
  
Still, she could not deny the current of anticipation that ran through her every time she thought of seeing Sherlock again. She imagined his face and wondered if it would be filled with the same anticipation and delight. Molly was positive he would be delighted to be reunited with Scott, but she was never sure what his response to her would be. Perhaps she had read it all wrong and he had indeed adjusted back to his Baker Street life as a solitary unit bound only to his work. Yet, her instincts told her something else, which was what ultimately pushed her to take the risk and come back home to London.   
  
“Oh, Molly, I know you were afraid lilac wasn’t really your colour but just _look_ how lovely it works on you…” said Mary, delighted.   
“I suppose it does work,” Molly remarked, smiling as she studied her reflection. “Thank you for rushing to get this done. I told Mycroft going incognito as a guest was more than enough…”  
“You? A simple guest?” Mary said with a chuckle, “Nonsense. You’re more important than you realise, Molly Hooper. And, like I said, Sherlock’s face when he sees you walking down that aisle is going to be worth _everything_.”  
  
When the ladies were done with the fitting, Mary pulled Molly in for a hug and whispered, “You know, he will be so happy to see you, Molly…”  
“Will he?” Molly asked, “Sometimes I’m not sure what I’ve just done…”  
“Well, has it made _you_ happy?”  
“Yes. So far it has.”  
“Then that’s all there is to it.”  
  
Mary gave Molly a quick peck on the cheek and another reassuring squeeze before letting her go. The two of them parted ways, both with smiles on their faces. A very important day was coming up, not just for the Watsons, but for Molly Hooper too. 

* * *

“I know you don’t think I’m very busy, Mycroft…I mean, I don’t run errands for the Queen or protect the whole of England but I can’t just be summoned out from my _own_ clinic at your beck and call, you know…” remarked a rather exasperated John who was being ushered into Mycroft’s office again.   
“I would never leave your practice in the lurch, John. My stand-in doctors are running your clinic as though you’d never left it.”  
“Well, that’s reassuring,” John replied, sinking with resignation into an armchair.  
“We need to discuss the wedding,” said Mycroft, cutting straight to the point.”  
  
John sighed. On one hand, he was overjoyed that the woman who was clearly important to his best friend was finally back home and was possibly going to make their wedding even more special than they could have ever imagined. On the other hand, however, it meant even more incessant interruption from Mycroft and more meddling from the British government than John could have ever anticipated.   
  
“Are you going to bomb-sweep the venue again or something?” asked John, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.   
“Oh, no, no,” Mycroft said with a dismissive laugh, “Bomb-sweeps are things of the past. We have new methods now that I cannot tell you about.”  
“Pity. I was all ears…”  
“I need to know that you’ve managed to keep Molly Hooper’s arrival secret from Sherlock. I imagine he’s spending lots of time with you and Mary as the wedding draws near. He’s rather involved in all its operations, is he not?”  
“A little too involved, in fact,” John said, “Which worries me sometimes but Mary finds it amusing.”  
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry. It keeps him occupied, which is always a good thing.”  
“Well, with such reassurance from you and Mary, I guess I shan’t.”  
“But he doesn’t know about Molly, does he?”  
“Nope. Not even a genius like him has deduced a whiff of it.”  
“Good.”  
“Mary’s been the one calling the shots anyway. She’s awfully good at this. Makes me wonder if she was a spy in a past life or something…” said John with a chuckle.  
“Perhaps…” Mycroft answered wryly, “Who knows these days…”  
  
Suddenly, a knock came on the office door as one of Mycroft’s assistants appeared in the open doorway.  
  
“Sir, it’s done and ready for your inspection,” said the assistant quietly.  
“Already?” he asked the assistant, “I had been regretfully told to expect it until after the wedding…”  
“They were afraid to…upset your schedule, sir,” came the assistant’s reply.   
“This is splendid news,” said Mycroft, genuinely breaking into a smile.   
“What is?” asked John, marvelling at the sight of Mycroft’s actual teeth.   
  
Mycroft signalled to his assistant to ready his car as he picked up a few dossiers off his desk to read whilst on the way.  
  
“Come on, John,” said Mycroft, “I hadn’t expected such serendipitous timing but since you’re here I think you should join me.”  
“Where are we going and what am I joining you for?”   
“We’re off to Baker Street,” Mycroft replied, smiling, before turning to walk out of his office.   
  
When the two gentlemen arrived at Baker Street, John was surprised to see people moving in and out of the building, with Mrs Hudson standing by the door, beaming away in excitement.  
  
“Judging by that look on your face, Mrs Hudson, I trust it’s gone all to plan,” he said, greeting the landlady.   
“I couldn’t resist and had to take a peek,” she whispered excitedly. “Oh! Wasn’t expecting to see you here, John!”  
  
The landlady moved to give John a hug and a kiss on the cheek. When she saw John’s furrowed brows and the obvious confusion he was feeling, she could not help but laugh.   
  
“He doesn’t know, does he?” asked Mrs Hudson, turning to Mycroft.   
“Not in the least,” Mycroft replied. “Well, shall we?”  
  
With Mrs Hudson leading the way, the two gentlemen made their way up the stairs to Sherlock’s flat. When they emerged in Sherlock’s sitting room, they saw a few men dusting and vacuuming the area and obviously doing a massive clean-up. A few others were seen moving what looked like folded cardboard boxes and huge rubbish bags out from John’s room.   
  
“ _What_ on earth is going on here?” John exclaimed.   
“Why don’t you step into your old room and find out?” said Mycroft, very generously offering John the first view of what had been Mycroft’s secret project.   
“All right then,” said John with a nod.   
  
With a tentative step forward, John placed his hand on a familiar doorknob and twisted it open. When the door opened, the first thing that struck him was the smell of freshly sanded wood. In fact, there was the scent of overwhelming _newness_ in the air. True enough, when John opened the door fully and stepped inside, the entire room was nothing like he had remembered.   
  
“Was this your idea, Mycroft?” John asked, smirking, turning to face Mycroft.  
“Well…” Mycroft seemed hesitant to answer.  
“Yes, it was,” Mrs Hudson answered on his behalf. “It was _entirely_ his.”  
  
What John saw was an incredible transformation. The room had been newly wallpapered with a fresh, springtime-inspired design. Shades of lemon yellows and mint greens and blues peppered the design of the room, from the cushions on the new arm chairs, to the bedding of what was clearly the central feature of the room: a large, sturdy wooden cot.   
  
“This…is all for Scott,” John exclaimed in amusement, picking up a baby’s pillow and blanket that had Scott’s initials embroidered on them.   
“Isn’t it wonderful?” Mrs Hudson said, almost bursting with excitement.  
  
Indeed, what had been John’s old room was now converted into a most wonderful nursery. There was the sturdy, hand-finished wooden cot that Mycroft had designed by the best in the country, the luxurious armchair and side table, and the desk tucked in the corner, equipped with everything Molly needed in case she needed to work there. The nursery was beautifully lit with custom designed lighting and had everything from the drapes to the carpet finished to perfection.   
  
“That changing table looks like it costs more than my whole house, Mycroft…” John joked, walking over to a most impressive looking changing table with all sorts of customised features and secret drawers and compartments everywhere. “This is beautiful. I didn’t think it was possible, Mycroft, but you’ve really outdone yourself.”  
“Wait till you find out about all the security features in this room,” Mrs Hudson whispered to John.”  
  
The pair of them laughed as Mycroft stood, scanning the room, oblivious to their chatter. He was quietly examining that everything had been done according to his very meticulous demands. A small smile finally appeared when Mycroft had ascertained that everything was indeed in order.   
  
“I have a question, Mycroft,” John asked, snapping Mycroft out from his inspection.  
“Hmm?”   
“How did Sherlock not notice _any_ of this?”   
“Simple, really…” Mycroft answered, walking over to check a hidden compartment in the window sill.   
“Surely he would have been irritated by all the people coming in and out…” continued John. “Locking this room wouldn’t have kept him out either…”  
  
There came a small laugh from Mycroft as he tapped a small section in the window sill only for a small little device to pop out from it. He bent to take a closer look at it and smiled in satisfaction that it had been properly installed before popping it back in.  
  
“All I had to do was to turn this into a blindspot,” Mycroft began, “and our mother is Sherlock’s greatest one.”  
“Oh god… Yes, I remember now…” John said, “I even asked if she was moving in.”  
“You did? Well I’m glad you did. Any additional mention of mother always helps. All it took for me was to mention our mother had something to do with the room and it sent him running. I could commit whole murders in here and he wouldn’t have had the slightest clue simply because he would have blocked everything out.”  
  
Mrs Hudson and John stood where they were, amazed at how Mycroft had allowed the largest clue to Molly’s arrival in London go unnoticed by Sherlock when it stood here, right in the heart of his own flat.   
  
“Right, I think we’d better go,” said Mycroft, turning to exit the nursery. “My brother is returning soon and we wouldn’t want to spoil everything, would we? Not after we’ve come this far.”

* * *

It was only the morning of the wedding day and John was already exhausted. He had spent the whole morning finding ways to stop Sherlock from going to inspect the bridal party in his compulsive bid to check that everything was in order.   
  
“It’s fine, Sherlock,” John said, “Mary’s got everything under control, her maid-of-honour’s there…the wedding planner’s there…”  
“Janine’s duties are confined to watching over Mary. As for that wedding planner you hired, well, let’s just say I could give him a run for his money…”  
“Look, Sherlock, we all know you’ve got this wedding planned to a T, so let’s just relax. How about you focus on getting us lads ready and to the church on time eh?”  
“I suppose I _can’t_ be in two places at the same time…”  
“Sorry to remind you, Sherlock, but you’re _not_ omnipresent.”  
“Well, we all have our shortcomings…”  
“ _Enough_. Let’s just sort my tie out and get to the church…”  
  
The two men eventually stepped out of John’s suite and began walking to the church. Sherlock was still trying to hop over to the bridal suite because he was not confident the ladies knew what to do with their corsages or if they were going to hold their bouquets correctly. Eventually, with great patience and great persuasion, John managed to keep Sherlock quite literally out of the ladies’ hair and to the church to prepare for the ceremony.   
  
Before they knew it, the hustle and bustle of the morning began to settle as the wedding ceremony soon approached. John and Sherlock were stood by the altar at the end of the aisle, watching the church hall fill steadily with guests.   
  
“You nervous?” John asked Sherlock.  
“No. Are you?”  
“Of course, I am. I’m getting married.”  
“So why are you asking about me?” asked Sherlock.   
“You don’t like crowds, nor social events, nor anything sentimental or romantic. This is an unfortunate amalgamation of those things. I thought I’d just check.”  
“I’m fine,” said Sherlock, inhaling sharply. “This is your day. I won’t ruin it. I had promised.”  
“Well, just…take it easy, all right?” John said, amused, “The girls know what they’re doing. You _have_ to let it go.”  
“But those bouquets have to be held _precisely_ at the angle at which…”  
“Sherlock…”  
“Sorry. I’ll just…stand right here.”  
Sherlock had lied, of course. There was an impossible knot in the pit of his stomach. Him wanting to fuss over bouquets and corsages was his own way of distracting himself from the terrible anxiety he was feeling. As best man, his place beside John meant all those eyes that were looking at John also looked right at him. It did not help that much later on, he would have to give a best man’s speech in front of those very same people. Swallowing hard, Sherlock tried forgetting his anxiety by checking the flower arrangements on the pews and was just about to run down to adjust a slightly drooping leaf when John nudged Sherlock in the ribs to signal that things were about to begin.   
  
The pianist had taken her position as the vicar invited the congregation to stand. Sherlock felt a moment’s relief as all those gazes averted from where he was standing and moved to stare at the church entrance. When the doors swung upon, the day’s sunlight poured in and Sherlock could see the figure of the page boy walking in. As he relaxed, he found himself being able to smile a little. Sherlock took a quick glance at his best friend and saw that his eyes were already glistening with emotion. Nothing could have distracted John’s gaze from those open church doors as he stood in anticipation of his bride’s entrance.   
  
A few piano chords in, Sherlock could see Janine, the maid-of-honour, following behind the page boy. The first thing he did was to inspect the way she was holding the bouquet and was pleased she had remembered his instructions from the wedding rehearsals. _Two more bouquets_ , he thought to himself as Janine continued walking down the aisle. There was the second bridesmaid, and then a few piano chords later, the third one, both holding their bouquets correctly, as per his rehearsal instructions. In a few more chords, Mary, in all her resplendent beauty would step through those doors and begin her walk down the aisle.   
  
No matter how nervous he was feeling, Sherlock could not help but be filled with excitement as he waited to see Mary, someone he now considered near and dear to him, come down the aisle. So when an unidentified fourth bridesmaid appeared in the church’s doorway and began her walk down the aisle, Sherlock felt his excitement turn into slight panic at this unexpected change of plan. However, as his eyes slowly focused on this fourth bridesmaid and as her identity slowly became apparent, it was no longer panic that he felt, but sheer disbelief. The wedding march music seemed to drown out as his ears filled with the sound of his heart pounding in his chest.   
  
When Mary eventually walked in, John caught her eye through her veil and they both smiled. Gesturing with a quick tilt of her head, Mary signalled to John to take a quick peek at his best friend. John turned around and had a swift glance at his friend who seemed transfixed by the fourth bridesmaid whom he knew by now was Molly Hooper. Trying his best not to laugh out loud, John turned back to focus his attention on Mary, whom, in a few moments, he would finally marry.   
  
The piano music reached its climax just as Mary reached to take the arm of John Watson. The maid-of-honour, the two bridesmaids and Molly all took their positions in a neat row beside the bride. Sherlock had not once stopped staring at Molly. The last time he had doubted what his eyes had seen was when he had been drugged by a powerful hallucinogen. Sherlock was sure nothing of that sort was in his bloodstream and yet, could not believe what he was seeing.  
  
As the guests took their seats and the church hall quietened down, Molly finally looked up from her bouquet to glance over to the groom’s side. There, her eyes met with Sherlock’s that had been locked in on her the entire duration. A gentle smile appeared on her lips and Sherlock, too shocked to respond, merely blinked in rapid succession, with his mouth slightly agape. Trying hard not to laugh, Molly bit down on the insides of her cheeks and returned her eyes to couple at the altar. This was their special day and she intended to give all of her attention to it. She would deal with the short-circuiting detective at a more appropriate time.    
  
The wedding had gone perfectly according to plan and when the church bells rang, John and Mary raced down the aisle, hand in hand and laughing as the newlyweds, Mr and Mrs Watson. Molly and the other three bridesmaids ran after them, laughing and cheering as the guests clapped and threw flowers outside the church. Nothing but happiness filled the air and John and Mary’s faces shone brighter than the late morning sunshine.   
  
As the photographer snapped away and people continued cheering and clapping, the bridesmaids stood around the couple, smiling along with them and posing with their bouquets.   
  
“Just the couple now, please, if you don’t mind!” said the photographer, asking everyone in the bridal party to step out of frame.   
  
Everybody obliged and stepped aside whilst the photographer continued to take pictures, occasionally calling out instructions to the couple. Molly stood at the side, beaming away as she watched the happy couple clearly having one of the best moments of their lives. Being able to witness their happiness made Molly especially glad that she had come back, back home to her friends, to her _family_.   
  
“Do you have a moment?” came a quiet but not unfamiliar voice just behind her.   
  
Molly turned around and saw the very face she had come back for smiling gently at her. She nodded, smiling in return. Sherlock extended his arm and she took it. Together, they slipped back into the church, away from the revellers.   
  
With her arm looped comfortably in his, the pair of them walked quietly into the church, unaware of the amusing fact that they were in fact strolling slowly down the aisle. Sherlock led them to the very first row of pews and sat down. Molly joined him and the two of them took a moment to enjoy the peace and quiet of the empty hall and the way the light streamed in, taking with it bits of colour from the stained glass windows.   
  
For a long time, neither of them said anything but neither were they uncomfortable with the silence between them. It took a while but eventually, for the first time since the morning, since all the wedding madness and the shock of seeing Molly, Sherlock could feel his chest start to ease a little as he relaxed.   
  
“Are you okay?” Molly asked gently, after she saw him take an actual, normal breath in.   
“Yes,” he said, exhaling slowly after. “Yes, I am.”  
  
He turned to Molly and studied her carefully, trying to ascertain that his eyes truly had not deceived him.   
  
“Are you back?” he asked, unknowingly furrowing his brows.   
  
Molly chuckled at his question and reached to take his hand. Her heart quite nearly melted when she felt his fingers weave themselves just as eagerly between her own.   
  
“This feels lovely,” she remarked quietly, looking down at their hands.   
  
Perhaps it was the strain from the morning’s anxiety, or the overwhelming emotions that flooded the detective’s now-functioning heart, but Sherlock simply had no capacity to contain himself anymore. In one swift movement, his free arm reached for Molly, pulling her towards him whilst his other hand remained firmly held in hers. As a dam of relief burst inside Molly, she let him hold her and rested her forehead against his chest. The sound of his heart was deafening, but with hers pounding equally hard, Molly could not be sure whose heart it was she was hearing.   
  
“Are you back?” Sherlock asked again, his voice even softer now.   
“Well, I’m here, aren’t I?” Molly replied, smiling against the fabric of his jacket.   
“For how long?” he asked, not sure if he wanted to hear the answer.   
“Well, I’ve been given a position at Bart’s…I don’t have a ticket back to Tokyo…” she began.  
  
Sherlock blinked at her words and pulled himself away so as to face her. He raised an eyebrow when he saw the corners of her lips lift to smile almost playfully at him. Molly’s eyes shone like he had never seen before and for a brief moment, they stole away the impact of her words.   
  
“You’re back…for good?” he remarked warily as her words slowly sunk in.  
“For good.” she said, nodding at him.  
“But why?” he asked, staring at her curiously.   
“Why?” Molly asked back with a laugh.   
“Everything was going well for you there…you and Scott were fine, your work was making excellent progress, Ayumi was there…”  
“But it’s better _here_ ,” Molly interrupted gently, reaching to take both his hands in hers. “It’s just…better here, Sherlock.”  
  
He stared at her as though she had spoken in some unknown language. There was no reason for her to remove herself from all that she had so wonderfully established in Tokyo. It did not make sense that anything could be better, and certainly not here.   
  
“Was it my brother?” he said, eyeing her again. “Did he actually succeed this time?”  
“No, it wasn’t Mycroft,” chuckled Molly, “He’d be pleased you thought so highly of him though.”  
“Did something happen? Did you get hurt?” he asked, his eyes widening a little in fear.   
“No, Sherlock…” Molly replied, trying to calm him down.  
“Then what is it?” he asked, trying to focus on enjoying the feeling of his hands in hers instead of panicking.  
  
Molly dropped her head to look down at their intertwined hands, a sight she had thought she would never see again. She smiled, then returned to look up at Sherlock, biting down the amusement from seeing the perplexed look on his face.   
  
“I love you, Sherlock, we’ve established that, haven’t we?” she said, matter-of-factly.  
“We have.” It was Sherlock’s turn to bite down a smile.   
“And that’s why it’s better here,” said Molly, looking right at him.   
“Is it?” he remarked quietly.“Yes, Sherlock, yes it is,” Molly replied.  
“But it is better without me. That was established for us, was it not?” he said, fighting his rising emotion with the trustworthiness of logic.   
“No, I’ve decided it isn’t,” Molly said firmly. “Sherlock…”  
“Yes?”  
“It is better here, because you’re here,” she said, reaching to touch his cheekbone, “We’ve established that too, I believe.”  
  
They took a moment to stare at each other; Sherlock, processing all that she had said, and Molly, waiting for him to respond. Suddenly, he leaned towards her, took her face in his hands and kissed her gently on the lips. Molly smiled against his lips, grateful for this familiar sensation that she had missed which now washed over her.   
  
“You sure about this?” he whispered, his forehead touching hers.   
“I did leave you my earring,” Molly joked, “One simply cannot go around with merely one ruby earring…”  
  
Sherlock laughed. A proper, relaxed laugh. He felt all remaining tension in his ribcage finally ebb away as all the fog in his head began to clear. Molly was here, and it seemed, no matter how illogical it appeared to him, she was here to be with _him_.   
  
“If it’s the earring you’re looking for,” he said, giving her one more kiss, “You’ll have to come to Baker Street.”  
“Mind if we stayed for a few days?” Molly asked, shifting to lean against Sherlock as he draped an arm around her.   
“I thought you’d never ask,” Sherlock replied, turning to kiss her once more.   
  
Suddenly, Sherlock stood up with a start, startling Molly who also rose from her seat and looked around them.   
  
“What’s the matter?” Molly remarked, scanning their surroundings.   
“Where’s Scott?” Sherlock asked, worried.   
  
There came a chuckle as Molly moved to hug the bewildered detective. Sherlock could not help but smile as his arms naturally wrapped themselves around her, feeling instantly calm from her embrace.   
  
“You don’t have to worry,” said Molly, “Scott’s in the safest place I know.”

* * *

The room was peaceful and quiet, save for the faint sounds of stealthy footsteps that circled the room they were in. Mycroft sat at his makeshift desk and looked out of the window. From there, he could make out the church in the near distance, and just below, he could see the adjacent building, the large reception hall where the Watson’s wedding luncheon was to be held.   
  
“I hope it’s going well, don’t you?” said Mycroft.   
  
There came no response, other than a sweet smile and the slight clatter of a toddler’s building blocks. Scott Hooper, having grown accustomed to the soothing voice of Mycroft Holmes, looked up at the man who sat beside his play mat and offered him a red block that looked like it was meant to be part of the construction of a fire engine.   
  
“Well, thank you very much, Scott Hooper,” Mycroft remarked, gently taking the object from the bright-eyed one-year old who was currently in his charge. The baby giggled softly, happy to hear Mycroft’s voice. Unable to resist, Mycroft reached down to pick the little one up and went to stand by the tall window that he had been spying from.   
  
“Your mother’s somewhere in there,” explained Mycroft to the baby in his arms.  
  
“And hopefully, if all goes well,” he paused to smile at Scott whose attention was caught by some birds settling by the window, “you, Scott Hooper, are going to become my nephew.”

* * *

The day had taken a dizzying turn. His best friend was no longer a bachelor, now married to a remarkable woman, and Sherlock had successfully managed to deliver his speech without insult or causing lasting damage to anything or anyone. There had been tears in the eyes of his audience halfway through, causing Sherlock’s alarm bells to go off slightly before he realised those tears were in fact, normal and acceptable. John’s hug in the middle of his speech had been awkward, but oddly comforting as well. The day was turning out all right.   
  
The Watsons had managed to change the seating plan at the last minute without Sherlock finding out and had given Molly a place beside Sherlock at the wedding couple’s table. When his speech was done and he had given the final toast, it was Molly’s reassuring smile and firm squeeze of his hand that convinced him that yes, the day was indeed turning out to be all right.   
  
“That was wonderfully done, Sherlock,” she whispered to him.   
“I’m just glad it’s over,” he said with a long exhale, “And doubly glad you’re here.”  
“As am I,” Molly replied, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek.   
  
The Watsons caught Molly’s kiss to Sherlock and both raised their glasses to her, igniting a laugh from Molly and a blush on Sherlock’s face. People being happy for him was something he definitely needed to get used to. Ignoring the continued and embarrassing stares from John and Mary, Sherlock turned to face Molly. His face was so suddenly serious that it shocked her.   
  
“Molly…” be began.  
“Yes, Sherlock?”  
“We have a few hours to rest before the banquet tonight…” he said.  
“Yes, we do. Thank God for that, I’m quite exhausted actually,” said Molly with a chuckle.   
“Could you take me to see Scott? Please?” he asked.   
  
Sherlock’s eyes were so earnest that Molly could not help but lean in to kiss him gently on the lips.   
  
“You don’t have to ask to see your own little boy, Sherlock,” said Molly, taking his hand in hers.   
  
Those earnest eyes from before now lit up in delight at her words. With their hands held, the pair stood up and quietly snuck away to where Molly knew was currently the safest place in the world. 

* * *

There was the faint hum of dance music coming from the banquet hall where the ‘night do’ continued to rage on. Earlier in the evening, Sherlock had finished his violin performance dedicated to the couple and made one final best man’s speech. Scott, who was now together with his mother at the banquet hall, watched Sherlock’s performance after which he had inadvertently robbed his mother of her first dance with Sherlock, much to her amusement. Once the music had come on, Sherlock leapt off stage and swept Scott up in his arms, spinning around the room with the chuckling baby held close to his chest. Scott had stared, mesmerised at the swirling dance lights on the ceiling whilst Sherlock stared, mesmerised at the beautiful boy he was holding.   
  
At the second song, Molly had joined in and their reunited family unit of three managed to successfully dance to the full duration of a rather upbeat disco song. By the time they were finished, Molly and Sherlock were breathless but beaming as Scott continued to chuckle and coo, amazed at all the coloured lights spinning around them. When the beats of the third song began, they said their early farewells and goodnights to the couple and retired to Molly’s suite.   
  
Now, that same faint hum of music barely had any effect on the two sleeping figures of Sherlock Holmes and Scott Hooper. The boys had turned out far more exhausted than Molly was. It was close to midnight and Molly, having finally managed to have her bath, was now comfortably in her pyjamas, trying to towel her hair dry so she too could get to bed. Once her hair was decently dry enough for her to get some sleep, Molly took one more peek in her son’s cot to check that he was all right before finally heading to her side of the bed. Sherlock barely stirred for he had fallen into a well-deserved deep slumber. He had had a long day, and Molly was glad he could rest.   
  
Suddenly, there came a buzz from her bedside table as her phone vibrated with an incoming message.   
  
_Sorry for contacting you so late._ __ _I just wanted to know how things went,_ __ _And if everyone’s all right. — MH  
  
_ Molly smiled as she began typing her reply to the man who not only knew all of England’s secrets, but who also knew both Sherlock and her better than they knew themselves.   
  
_We’re headed to Baker Street first thing tomorrow. — M  
  
Splendid. I hope you like the nursery. — MH   
  
Nursery? — M  
  
Yes. I had one built in the very likely event you and Scott were moving in. — MH  
  
Ayumi was right about you! — M  
  
I cannot attest to that, but I do know that I was right about you. ____And about my brother. — MH  
  
Indeed you were, Mycroft. — M  
  
No more of this separating business, I hope?  
You’ve both realised by now how terribly essential you are to each other. — MH  
  
No more, Mycroft. ____I told you, and I’ve told Sherlock…_ __ _It’s better here. — M  
  
I’m glad of that. ____I hope the nursery is to your taste. — MH  
  
I’m sure it’s perfect._ __ _Thank you, Mycroft._ __ _For everything. — M  
_

* * *

It was a late Saturday morning and Mycroft was sat in the back of his car on a quiet drive to Baker Street. He seemed calm as he always was, although he had a few worries running through his mind. There had been some updates previously that had worried him and, in his bid to contain things, he had asked for extra security among all of London’s prisons and sanatoriums. Even in his special high-security holding areas, Mycroft had warned his people to keep extra vigilant. The premonitions he had had then about trouble brewing had seemed to come back to haunt him of late. The most recent updates sent by his team had done nothing to allay his fears either.   
  
Still, Mycroft was taking advantage of this peaceful morning to forget about these troubles for a little while. It was not often he put work aside. There was nothing worth putting work aside for. This visit, however, was an exception. As Baker Street soon came into view, Mycroft could not help but smile a little to himself. He had been looking forward to today for a very long time. He looked over to his right and glanced at a wrapped present that sat on the passenger seat beside him. Closing his dossiers, Mycroft put them down and picked the present up, ready for his visit.   
  
As he made his way up the stairs, it pleased him to hear the sound of light, scampering footsteps. He recognised those footsteps and unknowingly hastened his own. The door to his brother’s flat was open, as usual, so he walked right in.   
  
“Mycroft,” came Molly’s voice. She was seated on the sofa with a mug of tea in her hand, watching Scott potter about their sitting room playing with his toys.   
“Molly,” he said, greeting her with a nod.   
  
Suddenly, a small ball of force hurled itself towards Mycroft and he could feel tiny but strong arms wrap themselves around his knees as his precious nephew, three year old Scott Holmes, rushed over to hug him.   
  
“Hello Scott,” said Mycroft gently, kneeling down so the boy could hug him properly.   
  
The little arms found their way around Mycroft’s neck as they hugged the most powerful man in England. Mycroft lay his present and umbrella down and returned the embrace, wrapping his arms around the little boy. Molly smiled at the sight and secretly stole a photo of them using her mobile phone. However, it did not escape Mycroft, who promptly looked up sternly at her only to break into a half smile. He was so different when it came to Scott. It was as though all the old rules did not apply anymore and Molly could get away with anything.   
  
“I’ve brought you a present, Scott,” Mycroft whispered to his nephew who still clung on to him.   
  
It was as though a magic word had been uttered and the boy finally released his grip on his treasured uncle, but not without keeping one hand on his shoulder. While still kneeling on the ground, Mycroft retrieved the present he had put down and handed it to the boy.   
  
“What must you say, Scott?” Molly remarked from the sofa, making sure her son remembered his manners.   
“Thank you, Uncle Mycroft,” the little boy said, staring at the colourfully wrapped gift in his hand.   
“Why don’t you open it?” Mycroft said, smiling at his nephew.   
“But is it Christmas, Uncle Mycroft?”   
“Christmas?” Mycroft asked, perplexed.  
“This is a present for Christmas, right?” asked the boy.   
“No, it’s not a Christmas present,” Mycroft said with a gentle laugh, “It’s because you’re a big brother now, and you need a present to celebrate that.”  
  
Scott smiled, as did Molly on the sofa from where she watched them. Trust Mycroft, an older brother himself, to know how Scott would feel now that a new Holmes baby had entered their universe. With his uncle’s permission, Scott hurried off to his little play area and opened his present. Mycroft picked his umbrella up and got up to walk over to where Molly was seated. Just then, Sherlock emerged from the corridor, having just come from the nursery.   
  
“Oh. You’re here.” Sherlock said to his brother.   
“Yes. Molly said I could come.”   
“Yes, she told me. Very good timing, in fact.” Sherlock said matter-of-factly, “So, are you ready?”  
“I’ll give it a go,” answered Mycroft, setting his umbrella aside.   
  
In Sherlock’s arms was the newest addition to their family, only a few months old and freshly bathed and dressed. Striding carefully over to his brother, Sherlock gently lowered the infant down as Mycroft positioned his arms to receive her. She had not gone to sleep yet and very calmly looked up at into her uncle’s eyes, frowning only slightly as she tried to register this new face.   
  
“Hello,” Mycroft said to the baby. “Very pleased to meet you.”  
  
Molly smiled as she sipped her tea, observing her brother-in-law and baby daughter meet for the first time. This time, it was Sherlock who took his mobile phone out to take a photo, except it was probably more for blackmailing purposes than Molly’s more sentimental reasons for doing so. Again, Mycroft looked up at the offending mobile camera phone pointed at him and rolled his eyes at his smirking younger brother. Still, he did not waste time squabbling and instead, returned his attention to the small life in his hands.   
  
“You still haven’t told me her name,” said Mycroft, turning to Molly, “I was hoping to get a similar pillow for her with her initials embroidered on them…”  
“We wanted to keep it a surprise,” Molly answered, smiling at him.   
“Why would it be?” asked Mycroft.   
“Well, we named her after you, sort of…” said Molly, reaching to gently touch her baby’s forehead.   
“But she’s…”  
“ _She_ wouldn’t be here without _you_ ,” Molly interrupted, looking earnestly up at him. “Just as Scott might not have made it safely into this world without Sherlock, I don’t think Michaela would have ever existed if not for everything you’d done for us, Mycroft.”  
  
_Michaela_. Mycroft said the word in his head and slowly pieced the information together in the database that was his mind. _The feminine derivative of Michael…Mikey, mother always calls me Mikey. Michael, Michaela._  
  
“Michaela Holmes,” said Mycroft, unable to resist a smile as he looked back down at the baby. Her eyelids were slowly getting heavy and she let out a small yawn as she slowly fell asleep in her uncle’s arms.   
  
“Now that’s a picture worth taking,” Molly said with a chuckle, looking on in amusement as Mycroft gazed fondly at the sleeping infant in his arms.   
  
“I want a picture with Uncle Mycroft too,” said Scott suddenly, running over from his corner to nestle close to his uncle on the sofa.   
“Of course you can have one,” said Mycroft, once again throwing all personal rules out the window for this little nephew.   
  
Scott leaned against his uncle who held his baby sister, and grinned widely for the camera. Sherlock took his mobile phone out and snapped away, amazed at how genuinely calm and pleased his brother looked. Frankly, Sherlock could not remember the last time he had seen Mycroft in a photograph other than for official purposes. The gentle smile on Mycroft’s face was a rare sight indeed and Sherlock was glad to have captured it. Whatever purpose he may have intended to use it for in future, he was glad to see his brother smile like that.   
  
“You should try having some of your own,” Sherlock remarked in jest, walking over to take over from his brother. “None of my children are screaming or running away, perhaps you’d be rather good at this.”  
“You’re talking nonsense and you know it,” remarked Mycroft, getting up from his sofa.  
“Maybe you should make a trip to Tokyo. Like I did.” Sherlock continued, smirking at him.  
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mycroft said dismissively, “Besides, raising you was enough. I’ve had enough fatherhood experience to traumatise me for a lifetime…”  
  
Molly laughed quietly to herself as the two brothers began their usual light bickering. However, so much of the tension beneath it seemed to have slowly disappeared. She recalled the first time she had been in this same sitting room with them both and how the air quite nearly choked her from how tense it had become. She was glad to see that after everything they had been through, it was not just Sherlock and herself that had a changed relationship. The brothers too had changed and seemed to have reached a new level of understanding and respect.   
  
“Well, I should go. I do have a country to run,” said Mycroft, getting ready to leave.   
“It was lovely of you to come,” said Molly, getting up as well.   
“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” Mycroft said, smiling earnestly at Molly.   
“Come back soon for another visit. Scott would be so happy to see you again.”  
“I most certainly will.” Mycroft replied.  
  
After one more hug from his nephew, Mycroft walked out of the Holmes’ family door and down the stairs back to his waiting car. The weights on his mind were scrambling to return to burden him, but Mycroft made them to wait a little longer before letting them in. For the first time in a long time, Mycroft allowed himself to relish the bliss of having the family he had; a brother he could not help but want to love and protect, a remarkable sister-in-law, a precious nephew and now, a niece named after him. Mycroft also recalled his brother’s silly remark about Tokyo and was glad he could now smile at the thought in the privacy of his car.   
  
“First, England. Then, we’ll see,” Mycroft said to himself, picking his dossiers up again as he allowed all those pending work matters that had been waiting to re-enter his thoughts. 

* * *

_What are you doing now? — SH  
  
Why are you asking me such a question? — MH  
  
Clearly you’re not busy. — SH  
  
Does it matter? — MH  
  
Yes. If you’re not busy, it means you have time._ __ _If you have time, I think you should get on with it. — SH  
  
Get on with what? — MH  
  
God. Were we just as frustrating?_ __ _Go do something about her. — SH  
  
Why have you suddenly become an authority as to what I should do? — MH  
  
Because you’ll regret it if you don’t get a move on. ____Take this reminder as me returning the favour. —  SH  
  
What favour? — MH  
  
You gave me my last chance with Molly.   
I don’t want you to miss yours with someone important. — SH  
  
I will tell you if someone or something is important to me. — MH  
  
You already have. ____So go._ __ _Don’t be an idiot. — SH  
  
Don’t be like you, you mean? — MH  
  
If that’s what will make you do something, then yes. ____Don’t be like me. — SH  
  
_ About two weeks had gone by since Sherlock’s exchange with his stubborn older brother. This stubbornness felt like retribution for all the frustration Sherlock had put him through. Having heard nothing from his brother, Sherlock was surprised to come home one evening to see Molly frantically setting up their dining table and putting out wine glasses despite having received a text from her saying that they were all headed to the Watson’s for dinner.  
  
“Hello, what’s happening here?” he asked, taking the utensils she was holding and began to help her arrange them on the table.  
“We’re headed out, so I need to get this ready before we go!” said Molly, rather frantically.   
“I don’t understand,” Sherlock said, now taking from her a small vase of fresh flowers and placing it in the centre of the dining table as she had intended. “If we’re eating at the Watson’s, why…”  
  
His question was interrupted by the sound of their doorbell ringing. Nobody ever rang the doorbell, not anyone they knew anyway. Sherlock was puzzled and turned to look at a rather rushed and frazzled Molly.   
  
“Are you not going to get the door?” she asked, wiping her hands on a tea towel.   
“Why are we expecting guests if we’re going out?” he asked in return.   
“No time to explain…” Molly said, already halfway down the stairs.   
  
Sherlock followed quickly after and, from the top of the stairs, saw Molly open the door to receive a most unexpected guest.   
  
“Ayumi? What are you doing here?” the detective asked, his eyes still wide from shock as the ladies made their way up to the flat.   
_“_ I’m here to, well…” she began  
“Have dinner with me,” came the voice of his brother, whom no one had noticed coming up the stairs shortly after Ayumi had arrived. _  
_  
There was an awkward pause as Sherlock scanned the room only to realise now that his entire sitting room had been rearranged for this specific occasion. Molly had pulled out all the stops and shifted all their furniture such that all that stood in the middle of the flat was their beautifully decorated dining table with what was clearly only two sets of cutlery. Several bottles of wine had been left on a side table, also decorated with fresh flowers.   
  
“Well, looks like the two of you can take it from here,” Molly said, giving Ayumi a quick hug. “Come on, Sherlock… the kids are already with Mary. We’d better head over quickly.”  
“Right, uh…” Sherlock was still trying to process the thought that his brother was actually going to sit down and eat a proper meal, and with another human being.   
“Sherlock, let’s _go_ …” said Molly, yanking her husband by his coat sleeve.   
  
When the doors were slammed shut, Ayumi and Mycroft were left standing in the middle of the newly rearranged Baker Street flat. It looked more like a small restaurant than a flat and it amused Ayumi.   
  
“Was this your idea or Molly’s?” she asked Mycroft, walking over to take a seat.   
“The dinner? Mine. The elaborate set-up? Hers. But the whisky?” said Mycroft as he took his seat opposite and placed a familiar looking case on the table, “Ours.”  
  
As Mycroft opened the case of their favourite whisky, the one they drank only with each other, Ayumi could not help but smile. How strange that he was doing this. After all their years working together, _being_ together in their unique way, she never expected to be dining with him so ordinarily like this.   
  
“We don’t…do this, Mycroft,” she said, leaning across the table, watching him carefully pour them a glass each.   
“No, we don’t,” he answered simply, handing Ayumi her glass.   
  
They each raised their glass, bringing them to the middle as they tapped their glasses with a soft clink.   
  
“This really is the best, you know,” Ayumi said, savouring her first sip whisky.   
“We have good taste,” Mycroft replied, taking a sip from his own.   
“We do,” Ayumi agreed, with a nod.   
  
The pair of them chatted for a little bit, updating each other casually on the places they had travelled to recently and the cases they had closed or had pending. By the end of their first glasses of whisky, Mycroft automatically reached for the bottle to pour them both another when Ayumi stopped him, resting a hand on his.   
  
“Mycroft,” she began.  
“Yes?” he answered.   
“What’s _really_ going on?” she asked.   
  
Mycroft cleared his throat and gently removed his hand from the bottle, which in turn caused Ayumi to release hers. He slightly regretted that but it was too late.   
  
“Please don’t tell me you’re dying,” she said, looking hard at him with genuine worry.   
“No, no, nothing of that sort,” he replied with a furtive smile.   
“Then what?”  
“Sherlock,” said Mycroft, unable to put his sentences together properly.   
“What about Sherlock?” Ayumi continued to ask.   
“My brother informs me that I might have some.. _inclinations_ towards you.” Mycroft paused to take a sharp breath in, “And that it was time I actually did something about them.”  
  
Ayumi looked back at Mycroft, startled at a revelation she never saw coming. Was it really Mycroft speaking or a doppelgänger set up as some massive joke? Her mind went blank because she had never prepared for a moment like this. How could she? This was _them_. They did not _do_ these things.   
  
“Oh.” This was all Ayumi could respond with.  
  
The two of them stared back at each other, a little lost at this unusual juncture in their interactions. Ayumi was the first to relax a little. Getting up, she shifted her seat to a spot beside him instead of across the table from him.   
  
“He calls me your admirer,” Mycroft said, turning to look at Ayumi, “It’s a little inside joke we have.”  
“Really?” Ayumi said with a wry smile, “You’re not doing secret trades in biological weapons though, are you? Because that’s not very good.”  
  
Mycroft looked at her, surprised that she knew the reference, only to then shake his head, laughing quietly. Why would she _not_ know the reference? She was Ayumi. Like him, she too knew _everything_.   
  
“Well, you know me, Ayumi,” said Mycroft, smiling at her, “I’m capable of far worse.”  
  
The both of them laughed, fully aware that the power Mycroft wielded in the British government alone meant he truly could have been capable of a lot worse.   
  
“Thankfully, you’re a rather good man,” said Ayumi, returning her hand to rest on top of his.   
“And thankfully, you happen to think so,” he replied.   
“I know so, Mycroft,” Ayumi remarked, “I’ve always known.”  
“Well, then I’m very lucky,” he said.   
“You don’t believe in luck.” Ayumi laughed.   
“You are an exception.”  
“That’s rather moving,” teased Ayumi.   
  
This time, Ayumi was the one who reached for their bottle of whisky. She unscrewed its cap and poured a second glass for them both.   
  
“So, tell me,” she said.   
“Hmm?”  
“Is your brother right, calling you that?”  
  
Mycroft let out a quiet laugh and set his glass down. Turning to face her, his eyes zoomed in on the necklace he knew she always wore but kept concealed as he began untucking it from where it lay partially hidden by her blouse, revealing the pendant at the end of its chain. The pendant happened to be a ring, a ring that bore the exact same design as the one he always wore on his right hand.  
  
“You should know by now, Ayumi,” Mycroft said, holding her ring gently between his thumb and forefinger, “My brother is quite the genius. And he is never wrong.”

* * *

The Holmes family had returned late from their dinner at the Watson’s, with both Molly and Sherlock carrying one sleeping child each and, to their surprise, found their flat restored to its original layout.   
  
“They really are meant for each other,” Molly whispered, careful not to wake Michaela.   
“I bet Ayumi did all the furniture shifting,” Sherlock said with a smirk.  
“But _I_ bet Mycroft wouldn’t have let her. He probably summoned his team or something…” Molly remarked, “I wonder where they’d gone to after dinner.”  
  
Sherlock took a quick look round the room, scanning for little clues and signs as to how their dinner possibly went. When he had gathered enough evidence, he looked at Molly with an amused half grin on his face.   
  
“I don’t think we should wonder about that,” said Sherlock, inciting a soft chuckle from Molly.   
  
Shaking her head at her husband’s remark, Molly headed towards the nursery to put Michaela to bed. Sherlock, with his son sleeping soundly as his head rested against his father’s shoulders, walked over to sit on the sofa instead.  
  
With the sitting room all to themselves, Sherlock smiled and tilted his head to quietly observe the little boy sleeping in his arms. He studied the full head of Scott’s chocolate brown hair, the slope of his nose that was distinctly his mother’s and measured the even breaths the boy took while he slept. Unable to resist, he planted a gentle kiss on his son’s hair and rested his cheek against the soft wisps, shutting his eyes as he savoured what he had never imagined he would ever experience.   
  
Twenty minutes later, Molly walked out of the nursery to a sight she knew she would never tire of seeing. There, seated on the sofa, was Sherlock, having fallen asleep whilst still tightly clutching onto their son. It confounded her sometimes, how she could never imagine a single moment in Scott’s life without Sherlock being a part of it. From the moment he had been born, Sherlock had been there. In Molly’s heart, there was nobody else who could have been Scott’s father.   
  
Sherlock must have felt her eyes on him for his eyelids fluttered opened suddenly and eventually met her gaze. He smiled warmly at her, before carefully manoeuvring himself as he stood up, taking care not to wake the little boy. Together, he and Molly walked to the nursery and put Scott to bed. Sherlock pulled the covers up to his son’s shoulder’s and kissed him softly on his cheek. He then walked over to Michaela’s crib and bent to kiss her too, amazed that this small little life was also his to call his own.   
  
“Who would have thought, hey?” said Molly quietly, wrapping one arm around her husband’s waist as the pair of them stood in the middle of their children’s nursery.   
“I hate to admit it, but if there was anyone, it would have been Mycroft,” Sherlock replied as he too, wrapped his arm around her waist.   
  
The couple laughed quietly, not wanting to disturb their sleeping children. Sherlock turned to kiss Molly’s hair as she shut her eyes and leaned in even closer.  
  
“Do you remember that one occasion that you had been poisoned?” asked Sherlock, his voice even quieter and suddenly solemn.   
“I try not to,” answered Molly, “But yes, I do.”  
“I don’t know what I’d do if that ever happened again,” he whispered, “If I ever had to face losing you, or the children.”  
“We’ll do our best not to let it happen,” said Molly, looking up at into his anxious eyes.  
“I wish I could rule it out completely.”  
“You know that’s not possible, Sherlock.”  
“I know.”  
  
Molly could sense Sherlock’s heart sink in his chest as one of the greatest side effects of sentiment and love began to grip him.    
  
“Sherlock,” Molly began, turning to face him.  
“Hmm?” he said, still lost in his quiet distress.  
“Focus on what you have,” she said, “And not on what you might lose.”  
“ But I’d almost lost you,” he said, “Twice.”  
  
Shaking her head in amusement, Molly smiled as she recalled the death that almost claimed her and the man that almost did so too. She smiled because in all those times that Sherlock thought she had been lost to him, he could not have been more wrong.   
  
“Oh, Sherlock,” she whispered, smiling as she moved to kiss him, “You’ve _always_ had me. Always.”

* * *

  
**Epilogue  
**  
It was a luxurious country home she lived in, but she knew that every inch of its grandiosity was a prison. Specifically, _her_ prison. Every step she took was monitored, everywhere she turned she knew the eye of a camera followed. No visitors were allowed, but that was never a problem. No visitors ever came, save for her pathetic old man or worse, the insufferable Mycroft Holmes.   
  
Evelyn Lancaster sat in one of the many ornate sitting rooms and flipped through a book of poetry aimlessly. She hated reading but one of the few activities she was allowed was that. Eventually, she made it a point to pick a new book as often as she could and challenged herself to see how many pages she could read before wanting to throw the book against the wall. Everything was suffocating and just _so_ boring.   
  
“You have a visitor,” said one of the guards to her this morning.   
“Oh god,” she moaned, dropping the book to the carpeted floor, “Two whole months of bliss and now they return to taunt me. Could you kill him for me?”  
  
The guard did not respond for none of the security personnel was allowed to interact with her beyond what their duties stated. She had been informed of her guest and that was all he had been allowed to say.   
  
Having no choice but to receive her unwanted guest, Evelyn straightened her blouse and moved to sit on an armchair to await either the blithering idiot she called her father, or the emotionless and utterly unentertaining Mycroft Holmes. To her surprise, however, a smartly dressed young man appeared and her eyes widened in both disbelief and curiosity.   
  
“Hello, Ms Lancaster,” said the gentleman, walking boldly into the room.   
“Oh my,” she exclaimed, rising from her seat as he took her hand and kissed it. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”  
“Well, I’ve heard a lot about you, Ms Lancaster.”  
“And I’ve heard a lot about _you_ , Mr Moriarty.”  
  
The gentleman laughed heartily and unbuttoned his jacket before taking a seat.   
  
“Please, call me Jim.” he said, smiling charmingly at her.   
“And you can call me Evelyn,” she said, her eyes sparkling.   
  
Somehow, Evelyn had taken an instant liking to James Moriarty. It would not have surprised anyone, really, but it was clear from the very beginning that they were going to hit it off. Besides, it impressed her greatly that a wanted man like him, no, a _former_ wanted man, for he was now deceased, found his way into her palatial prison without a single hitch.   
  
“How did you manage to find me? Much less get in here?” she asked, genuinely curious.   
“It’s only Mycroft Holmes,” James replied nonchalantly, “I know where his loopholes are.”  
“Incredible,” Evelyn remarked, delighted that something entertaining had waltzed into her premises at last. “But the last I heard, James…”  
“Jim, please,” he reminded her with another handsome grin.   
“I’m sorry, Jim…” she apologised with a chuckle, “The last I heard, Jim, was that you were dead.”   
“You mustn’t trust everything you hear, my dear,” he remarked.   
“I suppose not,” said Evelyn with a smirk, “Tell me then, what brings you back from the grave?”  
  
A slow grin appeared across James’ face as he reached into his jacket for a small white envelope. He placed it neatly on the rather elaborate marble coffee table between them.   
  
“I have a proposition to make, Evelyn,” James began.   
“Oh?”  
“You’re a businesswoman, I am a businessman…well, of sorts,” he said chuckling darkly.   
“I can’t help you much in here, you know, Jim…” Evelyn said, raising an eyebrow.   
“Simple, I’ll just get you out,” he said, shrugging his shoulders as he leaned back, relaxing into his seat.   
  
Evelyn eyed him quizzically, amazed at how simply he viewed what seemed an impossible task to her. There was power behind his words, a power she saw only in one other man; Mycroft Holmes, and it fascinated her. Perhaps there was a way out of this prison after all.   
  
“What is your proposition then?” she asked, sitting up in interest.   
  
Without a word, James simply slid the envelope over to Evelyn, gesturing for her to open it and take a look at its contents. Evelyn obliged, picking it up and lifting its flap to reveal a few photographs inside it. Carefully, she slid the four coloured photographs out and her eyes lit up in great intrigue.   
  
“My, my, James Moriarty,” she exclaimed, looking up at him, “What _have_ you got planned?”  
  
Evelyn lay the four coloured photographs down, meticulously positioning them like an open fan and took another good look at them. She smirked at the happy faces she saw in them and tapped a perfectly manicured fingernail on one particular smiling face.   
“I want them destroyed,” he stated simply, grinning at her. “Not the photographs, of course. _Them_. Well, mainly _him_ , but you know, the others are part of the package now.”  
“Yes, I can see that,” Evelyn murmured, picking one of the photographs up to study closely.   
  
The photograph had been taken at Bart’s Hospital. Molly had just given birth to Michaela and Scott and Sherlock were with her by her hospital bed, looking down and smiling at the new baby. Evelyn ran her thumb across Sherlock’s face, remembering what those cheekbones felt like under her fingertips.   
  
“Why me, Jim?” she asked, her eyes not leaving the photograph, “Why would you go through all the trouble of getting me out just for this?”  
“Oh, it’s no trouble at all, my dear,” James replied casually.  
  
Sitting up in his seat, he startled Evelyn by snatching the photo out of her hand, causing her to look up sharply at him. He took a pen out of from another pocket and began scribbling hard on the photograph, eventually poking a hole in the face of Sherlock Holmes.   
  
“I’ve been watching you for some time,” he remarked, continuing to slowly work his way through the faces of Molly and the children, “And believe me when I say…”  
  
He paused to toss the now defaced photo of Sherlock Holmes and his family at Evelyn and smiled fiendishly at her.   
  
“I am a _great_ fan of your work.”    


**END**

* * *

 


End file.
